Eye of the Beholder
by NightOwl22
Summary: A boy's murder pulls Dempsey and Makepeace into an investigation that will test the fabric of their friendship while dragging them down a dangerous path of manipulation and deceit. As Harry grows increasingly concerned about her partner's erratic behaviour, Dempsey will stand at the edge of the precipice when his judgement becomes compromised due to a chilling childhood event.
1. Chapter 1

** This is my very first story in this fandom. There are excellent writers here and the standards are high, which is a treat! So I hope you guys enjoy this one as well.

A very special thanks to **Krato**, whose wonderful stories inspired me to write again. Her advice and guidance on British idioms have been incredibly valuable throughout the portion of the story I've written so far. Also, I would like to thank a certain **Ostrich,** whose attention to detail never fails to surprise me. Her input always makes the stories I write much more believable and the process much more enjoyable. Thank you both! :-)**

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**CHAPTER**** 1**

**I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they won't fix me just yet. I laugh when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get back to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck. Catch me if you can.**

SI10 Headquarters, Friday 9:30pm

Harriet Makepeace tiredly entered the SI10 office building shortly after half past nine. It wasn't that she had been enjoying her evening in the least at the time she had been summoned there. She was not overly fond of dates in general, and she rarely felt at ease having an intimate chat with a stranger in a candle lit environment. But it had been a long week, and any sort of inane conversation, whatever might take her mind away from arrest reports and the endless red tape of a solved case, was welcome.

She'd met Roger Cornwall a couple of weekends ago while visiting her father at Winfield Hall. Harry had seen him several times before at charity auctions and other similar events, but had never been formally introduced. He was a handsome young Lord, whose boyish good looks and powerful presence had intrigued her from the moment she first set eyes on him. Now, sitting across from him at _L'Altelier_, one of London's most exclusive restaurants, she languidly stirred the cold avocado soup in front of her while she tried to focus on what he was saying. Turned out, he was extremely well spoken, had graduated top of his class from Oxford after majoring in political science, and was soon to become one of the youngest members of Parliament. He had a bright future ahead of him, an impeccable pedigree and the personality of a door knob, Harry concluded.

Perhaps dinner with the chap had not been the best idea after all. She fought the urge to glance at her watch every five minutes and appear interested in what he was saying, but the truth was her heart wasn't in it, and the evening felt like it would never come to an end. Even the ride back to her house seemed eternal. How could a Jaguar D-Type maintain a speed of under 15 km/hr for so long without stalling? Harry was relieved beyond words to hear the persistent ringing of the telephone as Lord Cornwall accompanied her to the door. She excused herself a little too quickly with a clumsy apology and a bleak smile, grateful for the perfect justification to avoid what would have been a very awkward good night kiss.

Twenty minutes later she was at her desk, happy to be in a place as comfortable and familiar as the office. She had just enough time to change into a white, straight laced skirt and a cropped blue sweater, although she could've really used a long, hot shower to wash away the disappointment of the evening. She swivelled her chair to face the tired-looking group as they patiently awaited Chief Superintendent Gordon Spikings' briefing.

Strangely enough her partner was nowhere to be seen. He was normally first in line when big cases were afoot, and she had a feeling this one was particularly important, or Spikings wouldn't have gathered the entire SI10 team at this late hour on a Friday. Of course! That explained…

_He must be off on a date_, Harry thought sourly. _If that's what one would even label his raunchy rendez-vous with women.  
_  
Almost on cue with her facetious assessment, James Dempsey strolled into the office wearing the same trousers and sweater he had on when they had left the office earlier. Except now he was sporting a noticeable 5 o'clock shadow. He exchanged a few words with some of the boys who immediately burst into a fit of laughter and walked around her desk to lean, arms folded, against a tall filing cabinet in that cocky way that annoyed her so much. Did he have to constantly flaunt his "yankeeness" in such a manner?

"Hiya, Princess!" he drawled, noisily chewing on gum. "Sorry your steamy Friday bath got cut short."

He had pronounced "bath" with an overly exaggerated British accent. Harry pretended to ignore the comment and deliberately uncapped a ball pen, trying hard not to give him the satisfaction of showing her aggravation.

"O' course," he continued as he sent a crooked smile her way, "we could always go back to your place when we're done here. I'd be happy to soap your back."

His voice had turned to velvet and dripped with sensuality. Harry shifted, avoiding eye contact, and started doodling on a piece of paper.

"Not that it is any of your business, Dempsey, but I was actually pulled from a very pleasant evening to be here for this briefing," she said flatly.

"Hot date, ha?" Dempsey winced, clicking his tongue in reproach. "Guess it's Prince Charmin' who's takin' the cold shower as we speak."

Harry set her jaw and counted to ten under her breath. She was clenching the pen so tightly her knuckles had turned white. Perhaps it was the horrible week they'd just wrapped up, perhaps it was the tension of a date gone wrong, but he was getting on her nerves more than usual tonight. What was worse, he seemed to be enjoying himself more than usual as well. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and caught him smirking.

_Bastard!  
_  
"May I have your attention please?" Spikings said over the dull roar of the small crowd. "An hour ago, the dismembered body of a young boy was found in the cellar of a townhouse in Lambeth. Forensics is working on the identity of the child, as well as the time and cause of death. All evidence seems to indicate that it might be Anthony Midgley, who was reported missing five days ago. According to the family, he never made it home from school on Monday."

Spikings nodded at Chad Jarvis, who handed each person in the office a black and white head-shot of the missing boy. Harry swallowed hard and examined the photograph carefully. Innocent bright eyes looked back through thick lashes, and a broad smile was framed by a retainer that accentuated smallish, crooked teeth. Something tightened inside Harry's chest. They were far and few between, but cases involving children always took a heavy toll on all of them. Bad timing for this one. The energy levels at the office were low.

"The missing person's report indicates he's eleven years old, blond hair, blue eyes," Spikings continued reading off the folder he was holding. "Five two, one hundred and fourteen pounds at his last check up. There is a small birthmark below his left shoulder blade in the shape of a pear. According to his teachers, he is a happy child, a good student and a great football player—a midfielder for the school team. He was last seen leaving the school premises at about half past three last Monday. He goes to the _French Lycée_ in South Kensington." Spikings waved a dismissive hand in Dempsey's direction adding, "An expensive French school in an affluent area of town to you, Lieutenant."

Makepeace couldn't help to inwardly cringe at her boss' use of the present tense. She raised her gaze to her partner, hoping to find in him the strength that she was lacking at the moment, but Dempsey didn't meet her eyes. He continued leaning against the filing cabinet, perfectly still, observing the photograph with a grim expression, his usual smugness replaced by something different, something darker.

"Dempsey! Makepeace!" Harry turned to Spikings, mildly shocked at the sound of her name. "You will be heading this one. Go down to Lambeth and talk to forensics. They should be there by now. The area has already been sealed off by city police. Judging by the MO, it is very likely we are dealing with a serial killer. I realize that is an early assumption, and hope the death toll doesn't climb beyond one body. Of course, you know as well as I do that if this is in fact the handy work of a serial killer, there's a good chance there's another potential victim in danger as we speak, which is why… " Spikings' frown deepened, his voice raising a notch, "Am I _boring_ you, Lieutenant?!"

The Governor's harshness made Dempsey's head snap up, and rendered the office into stark silence. Dempsey blinked as if coming out of a deep trance. Makepeace rolled her eyes, half expecting the usual snarky remark, but none came forth. Instead, he mumbled what sounded like a half-hearted apology as he ran the palm of his hand across his unshaven jaw and, with a small nod, prompted Spikings to continue.

"Our division was called in given the nature of the case. We'll have three shifts working around the clock here in headquarters. Any and all information on this case must be filtered through _me_ before it gets disseminated, are we clear? If this monster strikes again, we'll have the type of media frenzy I'd much rather like to avoid, not to mention another tragic death on our hands." Spikings let out a deep sigh. "Any questions so far?"

There was an extended silence broken only by the cry of a distant siren coming from the street below. The world outside had turned a bit darker, crueller than usual—or so it felt. It was Dempsey who asked the first question, his voice deep, all traces of jolliness vanished.

"Did the killer leave anything at the scene?"

"You mean fibres or prints?"

"No. I mean something of a more _personal_ nature. An object, a note, a signature of some sort…"

"Nothing as far as the boys in blue could tell us. They were the first ones at the scene," said Spikings. "That's why I need you to comb the place, and try to come up with some evidence, anything, that might give us a glimpse into the killer's mind."

The mood in the room was gloomy as everybody quietly studied the picture of the missing child.

"Anything else?" Spikings asked panning the room with his eyes. "Alright, then. Everybody get to work! I want to see a solid lead before Monday!"

The meeting was adjourned and the room broke into a quiet rumble of comments and murmurs. Makepeace grabbed her handbag and her coat, and turned around just in time to see her partner storming out of the office. She stood up quickly, pushing her chair aside in a rush, and sped out the room to catch up with Dempsey who was already halfway down the corridor on his way out the building.

"Dempsey!" she called after him, walking briskly. "I'm also on this case, you know? Dempsey!" She managed to grab his sleeve, pulling hard to force him to stop and face her. He turned around as if surprised to see her. Harry frowned, searching his eyes for an explanation.

"You all right?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, fine."

When that obviously didn't placate her concern, he let out a short chuckle and offered her a very unconvincing smile.

Harry knew him well enough to know there was something troubling him.

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**_

_Hell's Kitchen, New York City, 1960 _

_"You think they'll show?"_

_Sean Dempsey was crouching behind the dilapidated wall of an old building on Eastern 34th. He was blond and skinny, yet taller than most other eleven year old boys in the hood. His overalls were torn at the knee by an earlier fall that, to his chagrin, had cost him a spot among the most popular Irish gang west of the Hudson. Better luck next time. His own brother had been initiated when he was a year younger than him, and now was a well respected member. Sean figured he'd come here to prove his courage, to show them he was worthy. Now, looking at the deserted street, he doubted it had been such a good idea after all._

_He squinted at the sun, shading his deep blue eyes from the offending rays by using his hand as a visor, and turning to his older brother, he whispered:_

_"Hey, Jimmy! Maybe we shoulda got Gino." _

_"Nah! He's Italian. He's got no beef with'em."_

_James Dempsey surveyed the deserted street deep in thought. As children of mixed ethnicity in a melting pot such as New York, they had both been influenced by two separate worlds their entire life. Their Irish father hadn't been much of a role model. He hadn't been much of anything, in fact, as he spent most of the time either at the manufacturing plant in Brooklyn, or at the local bar. As for their mother, second generation Italian, James had probably inherited his thick dark hair and Roman nose from her side of the family; a stark contrast to his younger brother, fact that hadn't gone amiss by the sharpest-edged tongues in the neighborhood._

_In any case, James figured it had been his fists and not so much his surname that had struck a chord with "The Westies"i, one of the most notorious Irish gangs in Hell's Kitchen. At thirteen, he had already earned his leather jacket, being able to fight as well, or at least as viciously, as most of the older members, which had pleasantly surprised Jake Coonanii, their leader. Coonan enjoyed how unsuspecting rivals underestimated his natural skill and agility. It was all about the element of surprise at first. Now everybody knew to be cautious around young Jim._

_"Don't be such a girl, Sean," James teased._

_He was growing tired of his little brother following him around like a lap dog, but he hadn't had the chance to ditch him all day, and now he was stuck with him. Seeing the sheer panic in his brother's eyes, he added with a lopsided smile: "'Sides, with 'The Capeman'iii behind bars, 'The Vampires'iv are just a bunch o'pussies."_

_"We're still outnumbered," Sean said nervously. "And Hernandezv don't strike me as the listenin' type. More like the 'I'll f*ckin' drive my pointy umbrella down your throat and watch you die' type. C'mon, Jimmy! Let's split. Dad'll be mad as hell if we're late for dinner."_

_A rustling sound coming from inside the deserted building made them both jump. James' heart began thumping so loudly it threatened to leap right out of his chest. He started walking warily toward the dilapidated entrance, careful not to trip over the broken bricks scattered throughout the unkempt yard. It was a scorching summer day, and the intense humidity made the air all the more asphyxiating, although James wasn't entirely sure that was the reason he was drenched in sweat at the moment. He took a deep breath and kept moving toward the building. Tall, dried weeds crunched noisily with every step he took._

_"Hernandez?" he called, surprised by the stillness of his own voice._

_"The hell are you doin'?!" Sean squeaked, his panic blatant._

_James swallowed hard. His throat felt like sand paper. "Hernandez, that you?"_

_He walked into the building and the temperature dropped by several degrees. It was damp, and stank of urine and decay. He could hear his brother's desperate whispers from the outside, but he chose to ignore them, stepping deeper into the darkness. He wished he had a flashlight on him, as his eyes hadn't yet gotten used to the semidarkness. He squinted and the next step he took had him tripping over a metal pipe sticking out of the ground. He quickly grabbed onto a ledge to prevent the fall and cut his hand on a shard from a broken window. He gasped in pain and muttered a nasty curse as he felt the sticky wetness from the gash in his palm drip down his wrist. He was using the hem of his t-shirt to soak up the blood when a sinister shadow suddenly engulfed him from behind._

_At that instant, the world spun out of focus, then darkness._

_[To Be Continued…]_

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_i"The Westies" was a real New York City gang at the time._

_ii Jake Coonan is based on a real New York gangster._

_iii "The Capeman" was a real New York gangster, leader of "Los Vampiros"._

_iv "The Vampires" or "Los Vampiros" was a real New York City gang at the time._

_v Hernandez was a real New York City gangster, member of "Los Vampiros" and "The Capeman's" right hand._


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you for the warm welcome! I hope you like the story as it unfolds-I'll try to upload a new chapter every Thursday. I must admit I'm also a little freaked out by the main plot (the murder investigation), and much rather deal with the subplot (D&M's relationship). ;-)

Once again, I'd like to thank **Krato** for her great advice and encouragement. And a big thanks to **Ostrich**, for her continued support, her sense of humour, and for kicking my muse when it gets lazy.

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**CHAPTER 2**

16 Gipsy Hill, SE19 1NL, Friday 10:40pm

"Have you checked for prints upstairs?" Makepeace asked one of the constables.

She was standing in the main area of the cellar next to a pale faced young cop still not used to wearing the police uniform. By the looks of it, the kid was about to lose his dinner. He nodded, trying to form adequate words not to disappoint an SI10 Sergeant Detective, but his voice failed him, forcing him to clear his throat.

"Y-yes," he stammered. "I don't think the—"

"We have dusted the entire house, _detective_," one of his senior colleagues snarled pushing away from the banister against which he had been leaning. "Believe it or not, we _do_ know how to do our job in this division. The perpetrator was obviously wearing gloves. I assure you, he is no amateur."

Harry deliberately ignored his condescending attitude. "What makes you think it's a 'he'?"

The officer looked at her, not quite understanding the question. Makepeace arched an eyebrow, knowing not to expect a reply, and continued doing her job.

"Have you found anything out of the ordinary, officer…?" she read the name off his tag. "…Banks. Anything that might've been left at the scene by the killer?"

"You mean a note with his name and address? No, nothing of the sort," said Banks, his thick moustache twitching above a sarcastic smile.

Makepeace wasn't thwarted by the belligerence from local law enforcement. When she first joined the force, she dealt with antagonistic remarks on a daily basis. The sentiment got compounded after she joined SI10, where she found it difficult to fit in at first. In fact, she had been very close to requesting a transfer before Spikings, in a brilliant move, paired her up with Tom Graham. He had been an outstanding first partner—always gentle and helpful, albeit a tad overprotective. Harry would never forget how he took her under his wing and taught her everything she knew about being a SI10 detective. After a year and a half of working together, Tom got a promotion that significantly increased his take home pay, and kept him mostly tied to a desk. His death while on a special field assignment last year had hit her harder that she cared to admit.

By the time their partnership dissolved, she had made a name for herself and could certainly hold her own. For a while, she was assigned to several SI10 men who unwittingly hadn't treated her quite as an equal, but she had worked hard and had managed to earn their respect. Makepeace thought she knew all about antagonism and hostility at the workplace… until she met Lieutenant James Dempsey, from the NYPD.

To say they got off to a rocky start would be the understatement of the century. The first few weeks working with him were downright unbearable. His appalling conduct and chauvinistic remarks made her want to push him out of a moving car on more than one occasion in hopes he would get run over by a bus. Yet, as much as she tried to appeal to Spikings' sense of graciousness, any plea for reassignment (from either of them) had been futile. Her boss insisted on pairing them up: the only woman in the division and the obnoxious American, and there was no changing his mind about it.

After a while, working with Dempsey got a little easier as they both learned to tolerate each other and she realized there was a human side to him after all. Then somehow, she wasn't quite sure when, they began anticipating the other one's moves, reading each other's minds until, to everybody's surprise, they became the best tandem SI10 had ever seen. And although he could be rough, callous and a bit of a bully at times, she herself could not fathom having anybody else as a partner.

"Is that the gent who found the body?" Makepeace asked, pointing her chin at a youngster with too many piercings to count on his right ear and a tall, green Mohawk sprouting from his scalp. He was slumping against the far wall near a corner where two cops in uniform looked at him with a mixture of pity and contempt. He had been given a blanket under which he was shivering uncontrollably. His face, Harry noticed, was just a shade lighter than his hair.

"Yes," Banks said disdainfully. "That's the… _gent_."

He was about to say something else when his facial expression suddenly changed from mocking to cautious. Dempsey, who had been with the forensics team surveying an adjacent room where the body had been found, was now walking toward them. Obviously his reputation preceded him.

"Have you questioned the guy yet?" Dempsey asked curtly.

"Nobody has been able to get anything remotely coherent out of him," Banks answered hooking his thumbs in his belt. "You're welcome to try yourself."

The basement was plagued with dancing shadows cast by a lonely bulb hanging from the low ceiling. The smell of death lingered in the air, along with something else—something difficult to identify. It was the kind of place any normal person would avoid at night given the creepiness factor.

The punk's eyes were empty, fixed on a spot somewhere along the concrete floor. He was either in deep shock or high on drugs. Makepeace suspected both. Dempsey stood in his line of vision but the kid didn't even bat an eyelash.

"What's your name?"

_No response._

"I asked you a question."

_Silence._

Dempsey waited a couple of seconds and then let out a heavy sigh. Makepeace braced herself for what she knew would follow. She forced herself not to cringe when her partner grabbed the punk by the shoulders and shoved him harshly against the wall. The youngster's eyes widened in fear as his dilated pupils tried desperately to focus on Dempsey's face mere inches from his.

"Look kid, I ain't got no time for losers who're too high on shit to remember their own f#ckin' name, so be a good boy and try not to piss me off, cause I got a very short fuse," Dempsey growled through clenched teeth, his voice low and dangerous. He had a tight grip on the lapels of the worn out leather jacket which he'd pulled all the way up to the stunned youngster's ears, making the punk's head peek out like that of a turtle. "Now tell me your goddamn name or you'll be left with no nose to sniff all that crap that makes you so happy."

As usual, his charming methods had the desired effect. The punk's face crumpled tightly and he let out a barely audible "Skip" that sounded more like a trembling sob than anything else. Makepeace bit her lower lip when she noticed how the two uniformed cops looked at each other not quite knowing how to react.

After a brief moment of silence, a muffled, dripping sound echoed across the basement. The poor kid had lost control of his bladder. Dempsey released his iron clutch on the youngster's jacket and took a step back.

"Jesus!" he snarled in disgust.

"We just want to talk to you, Skip," Harry interjected shooting a warning glance at her partner.

_Calm down_, it said.

Dempsey rolled his eyes, but let her take over without an objection.

"I d-don't know anything," Skip stammered, a thick cockney accent seeping into his speech. "I just c-came down here like I do s-sometimes…"

"To do what?"

The punk shrugged timidly and tilted his head. "Y'know… t'smoke a joint, do s-some skag…" he swallowed with difficulty. "I went into tha' room over there and saw the duffle. I thought t'was full o'money, or somethin' I could sell for a few quid… I never… How was I s'pposed to know…?"

"Where exactly was the bag when you found it?" asked Makepeace softly.

"Right there in the middle of the room. I didn't move it. Tried to lift it, though. Before I opened it," he quickly clarified. "T'was heavy."

Of course, for a scrawny kid like Skip a bag of crisps would've been heavy.

"At what time did you get here?"

"Don't remember."

Dempsey's patience was already running low. "Make an educated guess," he requested in a passive aggressive manner that indicated to Harry he was quickly getting fed up with their only witness.

"D-don't know," Skip flinched, his eyes wide with panic. "Eight, a little bit 'fore that, not sure…"

"Do you come here every night?" Dempsey pressed.

"Not every night. Hadn't been here in about four or five days."

"So _when_ were you here last? Was it four or five days ago?"

Skip could tell the crazy cop was a time bomb about to go off at any moment. His automatic response would have been a vague "I don't know", but he thought hard for a moment and came up with a more concrete answer.

"Four, four days ago."

"Are you sure?"

The young punk nodded emphatically. It had been Tuesday. He was sure.

"Lieutenant!"

The lead forensics investigator was standing at the door between the main cellar and the smaller room. He had introduced himself earlier as Chief Forensic Pathologist Albert Smith. Makepeace remembered seeing his signature on many forensic reports she'd come across at the office, but they'd never had the pleasure, or the misfortune given the circumstances, to meet in person before this case. A tall, balding man in his fifties with evident gravitas struck her as a consummated professional. He'd certainly had successfully assisted SI10 on repeated occasions.

He was flexing his index and middle finger in that universal sign that conveys one should approach. Both Dempsey and Makepeace complied, leaving a very shaken kid in the corner of the basement in the care of the two uniformed cops.

"You found something," Dempsey guessed.

Makepeace had not been inside the tiny room before. A cold shudder shook her the moment she crossed the threshold and saw the black bag in the middle of the empty space. Even though the building was abandoned, she had expected to see wine bottles or beer barrels. The room was cold and damp, gloomily lit by another lonely light bulb hanging from the ceiling and, like the rest of the walls throughout the house, this one was also decorated with heavy graffiti.

"At first glance, it seems we're dealing with somebody who has killed before, and who is willing to kill again," Smith began. "As you can probably tell, all evidence points to the meticulous work of a serial killer: the type of crime, the _manner _in which the body was disposed, _where_ the body was placed, the fact that the murder most likely happened elsewhere judging by the lack of blood found at this location… It all fits the MO. Everything, except one thing."

"No message from the killer," Dempsey said.

"Or so it seems," Smith replied after a beat.

Dempsey frowned quizzically. At Smith's signal, a member of the forensics team reached up and pulled the string hanging from the light bulb, leaving the cellar in total darkness. An ultraviolet light came on, and then they saw it. Written in block letters across the duffle bag:

_**G d R**_

_ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_

The signature of the killer was tattooed on both their brains as they walked out into the cold December air without saying a word. A thin layer of ice was already settling on the street; the bitterness of a London winter was imminent. Once inside the car, Harry exhaled heavily to release the tension she had been feeling since their arrival at the house. She looked at the clock display on the dashboard: 00:17. Dr. Smith assured them he would have more solid answers in the next few hours, once the forensics team had finished its thorough investigation. For now, given the late hour, all they could do was wait.

"We'll have to talk to the victim's family tomorrow," she said to break the silence.

"Yep," Dempsey agreed, lost in thought.

"Smith said the body should already be at the morgue by 8:00," she continued, horrified by the thought of a mother having to visit such a place to identify her child. "I can meet you there."

"I doubt we're gonna get much outta the family so soon," Dempsey replied.

He was right. It was too soon, but they needed a decent lead sooner rather than later, and talking to the family was the best alternative they had at the moment.

"Right now all we have to go on is that bag and the odd inscription…" Harry sighed.

She hated stating the obvious, but her partner wasn't including her in his thought process, which was not only odd, but unprecedented. _What the hell was the matter with him?!_

"…which is not much," she pressed on, this time turning to him.

Dempsey sat with his eyes closed, resting his head against the bucket seat. Sensing her eyes on him, he turned his head to face her, but didn't offer more than an absent "Mmm…" in reply.

He was obviously working on a lead. She had learned to trust his instincts over the years, as they were seldom wrong. He could see connections and clues where nobody else cared to look. At first, she found his freaky sixth sense to be a fluke, a series of fortunate coincidences, but nobody can get _that_ lucky _that_ often. He was, without a doubt, a brilliant detective.

Ultimately, it had been his passion and his dedication which had elevated him to that secret pedestal she held for him (not that she would ever admit it to him or even herself). Harry figured he could get inside a criminal's mind because he could've easily gone down that path himself. But this was no crooked job, no murder for hire, and that worried her. She wondered whether he could really get inside the mind of a serial killer, and if he could, what did that say about _him_?

She shivered, refusing to follow that train of thought.

"Harry…"

Dempsey's soft voice reeled her back. She turned to him once again, eager to hear his initial impressions on the case. He was wearing a sombre expression.

"Nuthin'."

He mumbled the word with a slight shake of the head, as if dismissing a flashing thought. He looked tired, worn out. Harry had a strong feeling there was something besides the present case on his mind, that he'd been about to share something personal. She fought the urge to press him, knowing it would just be a waste of time. When it came to his own emotions, Dempsey was the most reserved person she had ever met. He would not share his feelings with anyone unless _he_ was ready to do so. That, she'd found out, only happened on an extremely rare occasion.

Her mind travelled to the young boy whose life had been ripped away and her vision blurred.

"Who could possibly do something like this?" she muttered.

Dempsey didn't reply. He kept looking at the deserted street through the windshield, his mind miles away.

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_Old Wickham Place, 1960_

_The first thing James noticed when he came to was dampness. The second thing was a disturbing absence of light. He was laying face down with his cheek pressed against cold concrete and surrounded by what felt like dust and debris. He tried to move, turning a splitting headache into a series of lightning bolts that exploded like shrapnel behind his eyelids, painfully travelling down his spine and spreading throughout his entire body. He let out a helpless whimper. His shallow breathing made his lungs feel like they were being savagely stabbed with every intake of breath. When he tried to roll on his side, a wave of nausea overtook him. He threw up, and once again his skull threatened to burst open. _

_It took all his strength and will power to push himself up on his hands and knees. He could smell sweat and blood, most likely his own. His hand hurt. The gash had stopped bleeding, but a dull pain remained. The moment he began moving forward he realized he was shivering, his arms barely able to support his weight. His eyes tried to focus on his surroundings, but he could only see black all around. He didn't know where he was or how long he'd been there. A bolt of fear made his stomach clench. He closed his eyes again, not that it mattered much in the darkness, and tried to keep his feelings in check. _

Don't panic. Not now. Think! You gotta think.

_He took several deep, calming breaths and opened his eyes again. Slowly, a faint light materialized a few feet away from where he was kneeling. He didn't know what it was at first, then everything came back to him in a flash. _

The neutral ground... Hernandez... The old building... Sean…

_He clumsily crawled toward the light. Dusk shyly intruded into the abandoned lobby,__offering James a safety blanket as it lured him out of that place. Once in the yard, he used the brick wall to help himself up to his feet. He called out his brother's name, but his voice was too hoarse to rise above a faint whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again, but the place was completely deserted. _

_James stumbled down the street, still a bit disoriented but comforted in the fact that if he kept walking toward the Hudson River he'd be within the safe zone. It was probably way past dinner time, but the sun still tinted the sky with lingering summer rays. The city skyline was etched against a grayish canvas as dusk turned darker. In a place like New York, however, stars often forgot to come out at night. The ones in the heavens, anyway. _

_Signs of life appeared before him the moment he hit 12__th__ Avenue. The Shamrock, one of the most frequented corner pubs near the docks, was crawling with rowdy patrons. They came in and out, laughing loudly, washing out the remnants of a hard day's work, oblivious to James' presence as he quietly wandered down the street like a zombie trying not to lose his balance. _

_There were a couple of yellow cabs parked at the curb. Their chain smoking cabbies were leaning against one of them, complaining about the Eisenhower administration and the non-stop rise in gas prices. A group of men who'd had a pint of beer too many were singing an old Navy song way off key. And then there was a man coming in James' direction with a toothpick hanging from the corner of his mouth and a distracted look on his face. He raised his eyes, saw the boy and rushed to him just in time to prevent his fall. James, out of strength, collapsed in his arms._

"_Jimmy?"_

_The man had recognized him right away. He was Jack Dempsey's older boy. They worked together at the plant. His own daughters had tagged along the Dempsey kids at factory picnics and community parties. The two had a reputation of always getting into trouble. _

_He lowered one knee to the ground, resting James' body against his other leg. _

"_That's a nasty cut you got on that eyebrow, boy," he drawled in that heavy New York accent so commonly heard in southern Manhattan. It was only then that James noticed the sticky wetness dripping down the right side of his face. _

"_Mr. O'Malley?" he said faintly, his eyes unfocused. _

_Jeffrey O'Malley was an average built man, of average height, who earned average wages in a place where average wasn't exactly the norm. He was a good husband and father, and a regular Sunday Catholic in an area of town where parishioners were on the decline. _

"_When're you kids gonna quit gettin' into all those fights, huh?!" O'Malley said soothingly, doing a piss poor job of cleaning the wound with a dirty handkerchief he'd produced out of his pocket. James gasped in pain and pushed the offending hand away. _

"_C'mon. I'll take ya home. Best if you go see a doctor 'bout that cut."_

_By the time they made it to the old apartment building, night had already fallen hard and the neighborhood cats were out on the prowl. Most of the windows were open to fend off the mugginess permeating the island during the sticky summer months. Mr. and Mrs. Bergen were involved in a heated shouting match, something about a cookie jar; Mrs. Stephens was deep-frying something or other and making the entire building stink of scorched oil; Mr. Danes' mutt kept barking at the ruckus the Bergens were making. All in all, a typical evening at 59 W. 44th St. _

_Sophia opened the faded bluish door to the apartment to find Jeffrey O'Mally practically holding her older son up on his feet. Her soft brown eyes widened at the sight of James, covered in blood, slumped against the taller man._

"_Jimmy!? Oh, thank God!" _

_She pulled him into her arms looking up at O'Malley questioningly, but only got a silent shrug in reply. _

"_Jimmy, what happened?! Where-?"_

_Jack Dempsey came to the door and offered the other man a short, silent nod. His eyes were fixed on his son like tempered steel. He curtly thanked his colleague for bringing his kid home and slammed the door shut._

"_The hell've you been!?" he shouted menacingly shaking James' shoulders._

"_Jack, c'mon," Sophia said weakly. "Can't you see he's—"_

"_SHUT UP!" Jack spat, turning to her with a warning stare. James fixated on the worn-out carpet, but said nothing. He felt dizzy, like he could throw up at any moment. The Bergens kept going at it. His dad's voice, however, soon drowned any other sound. "You think y'all can run 'round gettin' into fights all day 'n come home whenever the f#ck you please? Yer gonna learn to respect my rules, boy! Both o'ya!" He was already unbuckling his belt as he barked: "And where t'hell's your brother!"_

_James met his father's eyes for the first time, confused. A sunken feeling got a hold of his gut, like somebody had just punched him hard in the stomach._

"_H—he… He ain't back yet?"_

[To Be Continued...]


	3. Chapter 3

Okay, as promised, here is Thursday's update. I hope you enjoy the chapter.

**Abeed, aunt sal, krato, schwesty Alex, goroslin & rytx**: thank you _so_ much for the reviews! It's a great motivator knowing that people like the story. Also, thanks to those of you who are following it. And, yes, D&M will start getting closer and closer… (I know, I'm a shipper too!)

**Ryxt, abeed, goroslin**: I'm glad you like the story within the story. It will reveal certain aspects of Dempsey's childhood that might have shaped him into the man he becomes. As I said before, I hope to do it justice.

**Aunt sal**: All chapters I've written so far are about the same length (maybe Ch. 2 was a _tad_ longer). Chapter 7 is the longest so far; I was thinking about splitting that one in two, but if you prefer longer chapters, I'll leave it as is. ;-)

Again, many thanks to **krato** for being a great inspiration and for catching all the little nuances used in British English (my Makepeace might have sounded more like Dolly Parton if it weren't for her. ;P) And a huge thanks to **Ostrich** for all the fun times, support, *unbelievable* attention to detail, and that much needed "muse" kickin'!

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**CHAPTER 3**

New Scottland Yard, Saturday 8:37am

The lift door swished open and Makepeace stepped out into the sterile corridor. Perhaps it was the absence of windows, the faint smell of formaldehyde, or the gloomy fluorescent lights reflecting off the puce coloured walls, but something not quite tangible gave the place an eerie feeling. Not that the morgue was the most cheerful place to visit first thing in the morning.

She had slept badly, tossing and turning for most of the night. The alarm clock had startled her awake at 7:00am from a series of disturbing dreams that instantly vanished from her brain the moment she opened her eyes. She faintly remembered Dempsey featuring in one of them, as well as Spikings, but then she herself had only been nine or ten years old in her dream, which made no sense at all. Of course dreams seldom did. After a hot shower and two cups of tea she had felt a bit more invigorated.

Her low heels echoed along the corridor as she made her way down. Dempsey was already there and acknowledged her with a silent nod as she approached. He sat, hunched forward, on one of the four plastic chairs lined up against the wall in front of an austere double door with a sign above it that read _Autopsy Room #4_. His attention seemed to be squarely focused on the cup of black coffee he was holding with both hands.

Harry greeted him with a quiet "good morning" expecting a "mornin' princess" or "'bout time you got here" or even a simple "hey, there". The fact that the only response she got was an unintelligible grunt clued her into the kind of mood her partner was in. The sick feeling at the pit of her stomach surfaced once again. She remembered having the same odd feeling a little over a year ago during one of the most intense undercover jobs they'd worked on. The personal ties to the case had Dempsey high-strung for months. Had she arrived a couple of seconds later, had she not stopped him right before he had a chance to shoot that dirty bastard Coltrane, his career, his life as a whole, would be over right now.

But it wasn't the time or the place to confront him about it, so she pretended to ignore his sour mood and sat down beside him. Dempsey looked slightly less haggard than the night before. He was clean shaven and had changed into a pair of jeans and a white, button up shirt that he wore under his black suede jacket. His hair wasn't quite dry, whether from the heavy mist outside or a recent shower Harry wasn't sure. But it was his posture what really belied his exhaustion, and when he finally leaned back to face her, her concern grew deeper. His face was even paler than last night, and the dark circles under his eyes made such fact all the more noticeable.

Her expression must have given away what was going through her mind. Maybe she was overly transparent, too tired to conceal her true feelings or, most likely, Dempsey simply knew how to read her _really_ well.

"I'm okay," he muttered, meeting her eyes for less than a second.

"You sure about that?" she said quietly. When he didn't answer, she continued: "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"Hey, who're you, my mother?" he snapped, this time holding her stare. "Said I'm fine!"

"That's hogwash and you know it."

She raised an eyebrow at him in an overly aristocratic way. He clenched his jaw, rage flashing across his face for an instant before a clear change in strategy, relying instead on the old Dempsey charm.

"C'mon, Princess," he sighed tiredly. "I 'ppreciate your concern, but I swear to ya, I'm okay. If you want we'll go back to your place later and you can put me to bed yourself."

The words where typical Dempsey but his delivery was way off. Under normal circumstances, Harry would have just brushed off his comment with a snappy comeback of her own, which was the only way she managed to disguise how she felt about his relentless flirting. She figured her blushing could easily be attributed to indignation, so she had learned to nail her role every time. But now his words sounded foreign, empty. She was almost compelled to follow his lead, give into his request, and shock him out of the strange mood he was in, but she dismissed the option right out. That, she decided, was a dangerous game to play.

"Well forgive my concern, then," she finally said.

The sarcastic undertone was telegraphed loud and clear. Dempsey downed the rest of his coffee in one long swig and threw the empty cup into the trashcan by the side of the chair. He ran a hand through his thick hair, making it stand in all directions momentarily only to fall back into its unruly place once again.

"Look, Harry—"

The double doors swung open and Dr. Smith walked out of the autopsy room with a manila folder in his hand and a polite smile on his lips.

"Oh, good! You're here!"

Both Dempsey and Makepeace stood up, curious to know whether the forensics team had found something useful overnight that might help their investigation. They knew it was early for many of the results to be conclusive, but time was of the essence, and any shred of evidence could be a break on the case.

"I had two of my best pathologists working all night on the body," Smith began, looking at them over the rim of his glasses. "We're almost certain the child is in fact Anthony Midgley. His blood type seems to match. We've also crossed checked dental records and found the birthmark below the left shoulder blade as indicated in the missing person's report. We've determined the approximate age of the victim to be that of the missing child. The family has been notified this morning. They're now on their way here to ID the body."

He spoke with that clinical detachment shared by those who deal with death on a daily basis and proceeded to open the manila folder.

"Now all the findings are preliminary," he continued, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he started reading the files. "The toxicology report indicates the boy died of cardiac arrest following a benzodiapezine overdose. BZP is an opioid used as an analgesic," he felt the need to clarify. "The levels found in the child's body were just enough to cause death on someone his age and size, which could either mean the killer knew the exact dosage to administer to provoke heart failure, in which case we're dealing with a trained professional, or that he miscalculated and killed the boy by mistake. I believe the latter _not_ to be the case, judging by the way in which the body was disposed. That, however, is just my professional opinion."

"Either way," Smith continued, closing the folder and removing his glasses, "the good news is the boy simply fell asleep and probably didn't realize what was happening to him. The absence of unusual levels of adrenaline, norepinephrine and dopamine in his system support this conclusion. We did find cuts, lacerations and some traces of semen in the rectum," his expression turned grim. "Signs of sexual abuse. Fortunately, they appear to have been inflicted post-mortem. Needless to say, the perpetrator is a male."

"Sick bastard!" Dempsey growled. The circles under his eyes were gradually becoming more pronounced and Makepeace was beginning to seriously worry about his physical health. "You still think the boy was killed at a different location to where the body was found?"

"The way the body was dismembered shows incredible precision," Smith replied after considering Dempsey's question for a moment. "The killer had to use surgical tools and, even if rigor mortis had set in at the time, which would explain the lack of blood at the scene, there still would've been hairs, fibres and a thousand other residues left at the location. We found _nothing_."

"And the duffle bag?" asked Makepeace hoping to broaden their avenues.

"We have a special team analyzing it as well as the ink used for the inscription. I've personally called in a handwriting expert who will be going over the letters. She is one of the best in the country. Might give us some insight into the killer's psyche. I'm not as versed in the non-medical aspect of the evidence. Not my area of expertise. But I'll make sure to include their findings in my final report. You should have a copy on your desks by this afternoon."

A jovial ding travelled down the corridor announcing the arrival of the lift. The morgue wasn't exactly the most frequented place in the building, so when a short, gaunt woman strolled out followed by a sombre looking gentleman and two constables in tow, they all knew the boy's family had arrived. They made their way down the long stretch reluctantly, as if their shoes had leaden soles and the floor had been magnetized.

"Mr. and Mrs. Midgley?" Smith inquired.

"I'm Mrs. Midgley," the woman said shakily.

She didn't introduce the man beside her, the owner of the protective arm around her shoulders. He was of medium height and build, with hair so blond it looked almost white lest he had gone prematurely gray. He wore a grave expression on his oblong face, and the blue in his penetrating eyes was so light they appeared almost colourless.

"This is Mr. Collins," one of the uniformed policemen said anticipating the question for the purpose of access into the room, "her brother."

Dr. Smith mouthed a silent "alright" and pulled the couple to the side to prep them for what they were about to see. He turned to Dempsey and Makepeace and offered them a silent invitation into the room, but Dempsey turned it down, stepping back to give the family some privacy. Makepeace did the same, secretly relieved she didn't have to be present for such ghastly scene.

The double doors closed shut, leaving the two uniformed cops, Dempsey and Makepeace in stony silence. One of the constables was looking at Harry with open curiosity, in the same way people might observe a white tiger at the zoo. He smiled shyly at her. She returned the smile just to be polite, but the truth was the young man was making her a bit uncomfortable. She looked at her watch trying to escape his scrutiny.

"We're due back at the office at noon," Harry whispered near Dempsey's ear.

She had gotten closer to him so she could speak a bit more privately. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his body and smell the faint scent of his aftershave. Close enough to make her cheeks burn for no apparent reason and her heart begin to race. She took a shaky step back, covering her _faux pas_ by smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle on her skirt.

"I'm going to review all electronic records we have on area sex offenders," she said. "It might take a while, so if you want go home and rest for a couple of hours after we're done here—"

"Makepeace…" Dempsey moaned, rolling his eyes in a gesture of infinite patience. He kept his voice equally intimate. "Would you _please_ get off my case?"

"You look awful!"

"Well thank you, Sergeant! I'll make sure to change my evening beauty routine."

"All I'm saying is—"

A wailing cry from behind the double doors made the hairs on the back of Harry's neck stand on end.

_Nonononononononononono! _

The family's worst fears had just been realised. Dempsey and Makepeace exchanged a knowing glance. They had a tough job ahead, one neither of them was particularly keen on doing. They stepped aside as Mrs. Midgley exited the room followed by her brother and Dr. Smith, who guided her to the nearest chair and handed her some tissues and a small disposable cup filled with water. The frail woman took it with trembling hands, lost in her own miserable world and too dazed to realize what she was holding in her hands or what to do with it.

"Sometimes, I hate my job," Harry told Dempsey sullenly.

"Let's give her a minute."

After searching his pocket, Dempsey produced a packet of spearmint gum. He popped one into his mouth, pulled another piece half way and extended it to his partner, who politely declined the offer. Makepeace watched as he began folding the gum wrapper without saying a word, once, twice, three times until the tiny paper was folded into oblivion.

"The Bogeyman?" she asked.

"I wish it was, babe."

Five minutes later, Smith walked past them with a silent nod and disappeared behind the thick double doors. Dempsey gave Harry a clear head signal: _Let's roll. _

"Mrs. Midgley." Dempsey squatted in front of her to be at eye level. His voice was unusually soothing. "I'm Lieutenant Dempsey, and this is Detective Sergeant Makepeace. We'd like to ask you some questions."

Two tear filled eyes regarded him hauntingly, as if he were a spectre from a parallel universe. Her limp, shoulder length hair was a shade darker than her brother's and carelessly tucked behind her ears. She had a narrow face and a tiny frame giving her a mousy look and making it virtually impossible to guess her age. She might have been very pretty at one point. Grief, however, was a merciless adversary. Her brother kept holding her against his body, his arm never leaving her shoulders. He was staring at Dempsey with unconcealed mistrust.

"You a yank?" he snarled accusingly.

Dempsey held his stare used to such a reaction and tired of it in equal measure, but kept his voice even. "I'm a police detective with SI10, the division investigating Anthony's murder."

Still not used to the idea of her little boy being gone forever, Mrs. Midgley broke down into a series of heavy sobs, and the arm around her shoulders tightened.

"We already talked to the cops a week ago," the blond man spat. "Lot of good that did us."

"I understand your frustration, sir," Dempsey replied seemingly calm. "We just need—"

"I don't bloody give a shit what _you_ need!" Collins shouted banging the chair beside him with his free fist. "Right now we just wanna be left the hell alone, you hear me?!"

Makepeace clenched her jaw, taking an immediate loathing to the boisterous man. His lack of cooperation, in light of the situation, was appalling. She folded her arms with a frown, making a herculean effort to understand where he was coming from, the pain he must be feeling, yet her dislike remained.

A slight pang of shame coursed through her when she found herself hoping Dempsey would put him in his place. It was highly childish of her, not to mention unprofessional, but she couldn't help it, the man rubbed her up the wrong way. To her surprise, her partner simply got up to his feet and handed them his card.

"Okay," he sighed. "If there's anything more you remember about Anthony's disappearance that you haven't told the police yet, don't hesitate to call me."

With those words, Dempsey headed down the corridor with a stunned Makepeace walking closely behind. Once inside the lift, she turned to him with a look of contempt on her face, not that he even noticed. He remained perfectly stoic, his lower back resting against the metal railing running along the back wall while he stared intently at the linoleum floor. He was either lost in thought, or trying hard not to fall asleep on the spot.

"Excellent lead you got there," Harry muttered unable to hide her frustration. She knew she was being unfair, but she was tired and upset and did not understand why on _earth_ her cowboy of a partner had chosen that particular moment to turn away with his ears low and tail between his legs from one of their only prospects for a decent lead when time was _clearly_ of the essence. "Could've at least been a _tad_ more persistent. _Especially _since we have a dead boy on our hands and a sadistic killer on the loose."

"You think I don't know that?" Dempsey replied bitterly. "What did you expect me to do, huh? Pull out my gun and demand some information?" In an overly cheerful tone, he added: "'Hey folks, I know you guys had a tough mornin' an'all, but you better answer my f#ckin' questions or I'll blow your bloody brains out', would you've been happier then, Sergeant?"

A middle ground would've been nice, Makepeace thought. She was torn between the urge to throttle him for being such an arse, or chuckle at his unexpected use of the word "bloody". In the end, she decided to give him a break given his increasingly wan appearance.

Once on the street they walked towards Makepeace's car which happened to be barely a yard closer to the entrance. The forecast showed heavy rain throughout the day and possible snow by sundown, and the leaden sky was already growing darker.

"Let's try the school," Dempsey suggested talking over the roof of the Ford Escort.

"It's Saturday," Harry pointed out. "Better we swing by the factory and look into the teachers and other staff. It might be worthwhile paying them a visit at their home. Maybe somebody remembers something." They both got inside the car as the first drops began to fall. "But first, let me take you to breakfast," she said inserting the key in the ignition. "Looks like you could use one of those huge cheeseburgers you enjoy so much."

Dempsey's crooked smile didn't reach his eyes, but at least he nodded in acceptance, which was a hell of a lot better than the reaction Harry had expected.

[To Be Continued…]


	4. Chapter 4

Okay, as promised, here is Thursday's update. I hope you enjoy the chapter.

**MyrtleLGroggins**, welcome to the story! I'm glad you like it so far. ;-)

**Abeed, aunt sal, schwesty Alex, goroslin & rytx**: once again, thank you so much for the feedback. It makes my day.

**Goroslin:** I also find the main plot incredibly disturbing. Of course, the victim being a child makes it even worse! The tricky part was having a tough, NYC cop like Dempsey (who has probably seen it all) become utterly shaken by it. So, it had to be: a) a particularly horrific crime, and b) something personal to him, to be able to bridge the present and the past—the ticket to give us a glimpse into his childhood. I'm trying to stay as far away as possible from the gory details and soon, the story will become more about their relationship and how they are coping with it all than the crime itself.

Like always, many thanks to **krato** for being such a great inspiration, and for catching all the little nuances used in British English. And a _huge_ thanks to **Ostrich** for all the fun times, support, *unbelievable* attention to detail, and that much needed "muse" kickin' sometimes…

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**CHAPTER 4**

SI 10 Headquarters, Saturday, 10:34am

Spikings pressed his palms flat on his desk and stood up. Scowling, he leaned forward to gape at two of his best detectives in that intimidating manner he'd mastered so well.

"Is that all you have to go on?" he yelled. "A preliminary forensics report and the wretched testimony of a meth addict?" The Governor walked around the huge mahogany desk and started pacing around the office like a caged lion, the wheels inside his head clearly churning. "What about the family? You must've talked to them by now."

Makepeace shifted uncomfortably on the chair and turned to Dempsey, who had been unusually quiet all morning. He was sprawled unceremoniously on the chair closest to the door, playing with a rubber band that he kept tensing and relaxing between his thumb and middle finger. He looked either extremely tired or extremely bored, as he didn't even bother to acknowledge the question.

"They weren't overly forthcoming, sir," Harry said to fill the lingering silence. "We figured we'd give them some time to process—"

"TIME is PRECISELY what we DON'T have, Sergeant!" shouted Spikings. His contorted face was already turning a deep shade of red. Not a good sign.

"Why?"

It was the first word to come out of Dempsey's mouth since they had entered the building. He had spoken in such a calm, matter-of-fact manner he may as well have been talking about the weather. Both Makepeace and Spikings looked at him, trying to process the enigmatic question during a very pregnant pause.

Patience, however, was not one of the Chief Superintendent's virtues.

"I beg your pardon?!"

Spikings' face was now almost purple. Harry cringed. She could sense the impending clash between her stern boss and her irreverent partner, had been expecting it even. She just wished she'd had a third cup of tea that morning. Dempsey stopped fiddling with the rubber band and glanced up with an openly defiant stare.

"I asked _why_ is time such a big deal."

Something inside Spikings' jaw flinched and, for a moment, it looked like he was going to hurl himself at Dempsey and strangle him. The unruly American was obviously detrimental to his blood pressure.

"Have you finally lost your mind, son?" the Governor barked. "We have a serial killer on the loose, in case you haven't heard, and so far you haven't managed to get a single solid lead that might help us find him!"

"One," Dempsey began, infused with a serenity that was highly uncharacteristic, "this might _appear_ to be the handy work of a serial killer. The bastard's sick enough, I'll give ya that. But as we've already discussed, a single murder ain't enough to consider the perpetrator a _serial_ killer." He leaned forward on the chair, his eyes narrow. "And two, SI10 doesn't get involved in murder investigations unless there's somethin' bigger goin' on behind the scenes. It's all about the 'best way of allocating resources and not wasting our tax payers' money'," Dempsey finished in a fairly accurate British accent. He was now sporting a half smile that spoke volumes, and looking at Spikings in that bold way that never failed to get under the older man's skin. "I believe those was your exact words durin' last week's meetin', right?" His insolence turned to facetiousness. "Weeeeeell, this bein' a random murder, strikes me as somethin' the boys down at Violent Crimes can handle. So, _boss_, tell me… What gives?"

Spikings stood in the middle of the cramped office and regarded Dempsey with hesitation. After a few moments of unsettling silence, he let out a heavy sigh and began to rub the white stubble on his balding head, a clear sign that he was about to divulge something unwillingly. Giving up all pretences, he quietly walked over to the rain streaked window and stared at the street below, where an interesting parade of moving umbrellas of various colours and sizes appeared to dance at the beat of the raindrops.

"Mrs. Angela Midgley is a widow," Spikings voice was now hushed, and they almost had to make an effort to hear the words over the heavy rain pounding the glass. "Her late husband, one Quentin Midgley, died in a work related accident fifteen years ago while operating a freight train. As you have probably guessed by now, the deceased boy was born out of wedlock."

"So, who's the father?" asked Makepeace cautiously. It had been the obvious question to ask, although the way Spikings was beating around the bush, she almost expected _him_ to be the father.

The Governor turned around to face them with a grave expression on his face. "That, I cannot tell you," he replied. His eyes focused on Harry and then travelled to Dempsey, hardening along the way. "What I _can_ tell you is that he's a prominent member of the British aristocracy. The Commissioner himself has been pushing for us to get involved ever since the child went missing. Now that the case has turned into a murder investigation the pressure to find the culprit is tenfold. Heads are going to roll on this one, if not the killer's then it will be ours. And nobody, I repeat, _nobody_ must know who's pulling the strings here, you hear me? If this were to leak out, SI10 would become a sad footnote in the history of this country."

Dempsey let out a short laugh and looked at his boss with open incredulity.

"Are you kiddin' me?" he snickered as he stood up. "I don't care how big a fish this royal turkey might be. He's just become a prime suspect!"

"Think about it, Lieutenant! If that were the case, would he have requested SI10 to get involved in the first place?" Spikings huffed, emphasizing his point with a wave of his hand.

"Or he could be usin' his influence to throw us off his trail," Dempsey reasoned. "Have you even considered that? Matter of fact, as of right now he's the only suspect I can think of with a clear motive!"

"You can't be serious!" Makepeace chimed in. "C'mon, Dempsey! Why would a privileged member of the British upper crust throw his entire life away to get rid of his own son in such a… _brutal_ manner, and then get an elite division of the police force to find the murderer? It's preposterous!"

"I ain't sayin' he _did_ do it, but _not_ considerin' him a suspect's just crazy and you know it!" Dempsey started pacing the office in the same manner his boss had been doing just minutes before, the wheels inside his head churning exactly the same way. Makepeace found the mirroring behaviour quite ironic. "This whole relationship with a blue collar worker's widow reeks of extortion to me," he continued lost in thought. "A posh aristocrat meets this woman from the wrong side of the tracks, most likely while she's workin' in a place of questionable reputation. They get involved, have an on-goin' affair, or even a one-night stand, he gets'er pregnant, she has his kid, then threatens to expose thei—"

"Dempsey, I'm warning you!" Spikings cut in pointing an authoritative finger at him. "Tread carefully on this one, and keep your big mouth shut! You do as I say or your arse will be on the next plane back to New York faster than you can say _hotdog_, do you hear me?!"

Makepeace knew trying to keep Dempsey on a leash was like attempting to stop a fifty ton bulldozer with a plastic traffic cone. He would agree to play by the rules and then go off and do his own thing regardless of their boss' constant threats and tantrums. It was the way it worked with them, and it had been an effective, albeit reckless technique up to that point. But this level of secrecy was unprecedented, even for Spikings, which led Harry to believe they were dealing with an entirely different beast altogether.

The two men had been staring at each other in a long, silent stand-off. It was Dempsey who finally budged, nodding his head almost imperceptibly.

"You're the boss," he answered quietly, but his eyes remained belligerent.

_ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_

Once in the common office space, they assigned the tedious task of looking up every address of every person associated with the school to Chas, who promptly recruited young Bill Fry to go over the computer database on a job that would likely take the rest of the morning. Dempsey and Makepeace's job wasn't any less dreary. They began going over at least a dozen arrest reports of people recently snatched on sex offence charges, regardless of whether there had been a conviction.

"Do you need the names and addresses of the delivery personnel, too?" Fry asked.

"Everyone who has any connection to that school whatsoever," Dempsey answered.

"That might take a while."

"Just do it," Chas ordered quietly.

He gave Fry a warning look, one that clearly stated not to mess with the Lieutenant. Apparently Dempsey's sour mood had made the rounds already. Most of the team had left the office shortly after reporting to work that morning. They were either on surveillance duty or down in _Records. _Fry, however, happened to walk into the office just in time for Chas to volunteer him into doing all the heavy paper pushing on the case. Still considered a rookie cop despite having been with the department for over a year, he was always stuck with the odd jobs none of the more veteran team members wanted to do.

With an encouraging smile, Makepeace gave him all the information they had so far on the school, which wasn't much. All they knew thus far was that it was in South Kensington and incredibly exclusive: two pieces of the puzzle that didn't quite fit. Angela Midgley couldn't possibly afford a place like that on a petty train operator's pension. Was that the red herring that had alerted Dempsey there might be something more to this case that met the eye?

"How did you know?" Harry asked, making sure the other two men were out of earshot. She began scrolling down a series of names on the computer screen.

"Hmmm?"

Dempsey was standing next to her, rummaging through a bunch of folders inside the top drawer of a filing cabinet.

"How did you know…" she briefly glanced up from the screen, saw both Chas and Fry minding their own business. "How did you know Spikings was holding something back?"

"Ain't he always?"

Harry tapped the down arrow key several times and then typed a command into the computer. "I guess your nose never lets you down, does it?"

"Your instincts're just as sharp as mine, princess," he was sporting a sideway grin. "You just've to learn to trust them."

"Oh, is that so?"

She ignored the computer for a second and swivelled her chair to face him.

"Yep!" His smile widened. "Ya see, your problem's that you're a good little officer, Sergeant. Always doin' what you're told."

"Oh, and I suppose, in your book, that's a _bad_ thing?"

Dempsey shrugged, half sitting on top of several reports right next to her keyboard. "You gotta learn to question everythin' around ya, even authority," he said. "And that's somethin' you never, _ever_ do."

"You don't just question authority, Dempsey," she scoffed. "You _defy_ it. And, contrary to what you might think, I don't just blindly do whatever I'm told."

"You don't?"

His cynical tone earned him a long, condescending leer. "I fought tooth and nail against being paired up with you, didn't I?"

"Didn't fight hard 'nough. Look where it got ya, _partner_," he said triumphantly.

"Right, like you were any more thrilled yourself," she sneered as she yanked a stack of papers from under his buttocks. "You got stuck with me, just the same."

"I got stuck _on_ you, more like it," he winked.

She smirked at him and turned back to the computer screen. It was a huge relief to see him acting like himself again. His eyes had even regained some of that spark that always managed to magically motivate her. Oddly enough, she had even found his flirtatious comment welcome. In the end, it was that back and forth banter that made their partnership function—an inexplicable symbiotic relationship that someone had yet to figure out.

"Anything?" she asked, stretching her back to release the tension that was beginning to build in her shoulders.

"All sex offender arrests in the past fifteen months've ended up in convictions," he answered. "Three of those bastards'll be locked up for at least a coupl'a more years. One never made it to trial. He hung himself in the holdin' cell the night 'fore he was due in court. But until the boys come back from _Records_, we won't know 'bout cases prior to 1986. What dija find?"

"No arrests have been made in the past sixty days for either kidnapping or sexual offence. I'm going to check under child abuse, and see what comes up."

From the back of the room, Fry exclaimed: "Good Lord! This school has more staff than children!"

"It's quite posh," Chas agreed, arms crossed, as he patiently waited for the dot-matrix to spit out a page.

"If they keep murdering and dismembering their kids, they'll have no students left," Fry joked.

Makepeace actually _felt_ Dempsey tensing up. She watched him get up slowly and begin to walk over to where the younger man was sitting at the computer on the opposite side of the room. She pressed her lips into a thin line, feeling her stomach tighten.

"You think that's funny?" Dempsey glowered. His voice was too low, too dark.

"C'mon, Dempsey," Chas said warily. "He didn't mean anything by it. It was just a bad joke."

Fry watched petrified as Dempsey approached him slowly, like a predator stalking his prey. Makepeace, sensing her partner's wrath and unsettled by the unpredictability of his recent behaviour, stood up, alarm bells ringing loudly inside her brain. She was about to say something, but Dempsey beat her to it.

"You wanna hear a bad joke?"

Grabbing Fry suddenly by the collar of his shirt, he harshly pulled him up making the squeaky chair scurry noisily to one side, and viciously threw the young detective against the wall.

"Let me tell ya a bad joke!" Dempsey growled between clenched teeth. "A mother havin' to identify her only child by what's left'o him down at the morgue!" He grabbed Fry by the shoulders and shoved him again even harder. "YOU LAUGHIN' YET?!"

"Lieutenant, _please_!"

"Dempsey, _stop it_!"

Both Chas and Harry spoke at the same time, their apprehension written all over their faces. They rushed, horrified, to where the altercation was taking place, but not before Spikings had stormed out of his office looking like a grizzly bear dragged out of hibernation.

"What the hell's going on out here?!" he thundered.

Fry's eyes were bulging out in fear. Chas was frozen, too shocked to offer any sort of explanation. Dempsey turned, glaring at Spikings as if he wanted to kill him for raining all over his parade. And it was finally Makepeace who, with as much composure as she could muster, took her partner by the elbow and pulled him towards the door.

"Dempsey just needs a bit of a break, sir," she said apologetically. "It's been a rough night. We just need five minutes."

Spikings regarded his staff with a mixture of tolerance and disgust. He gave them a curt nod and added: "I want to see you both back here hard at work within five minutes, or I'll drag you by the ears myself! Got it?!"

Harry offered their boss a courteous nod and led a seemingly submissive Dempsey down the corridor and into the locker room. He walked all the way to the back without facing her, appeared to move in slow motion as he placed both hands on one of the taller cubbies, arms stretched out in front of him to support his weight as he leaned against it.

"What on _earth_'s going on with you?" Harry demanded angrily.

But he didn't answer, didn't even move a muscle. She walked over to the lockers to stand by his side in hopes she might get a reaction out of him, but she soon realized the conversation might have been more gratifying had she been actually talking to the wall.

"You've been acting really strangely since last night."

Still, no response was forthcoming. His silence was making Harry more anxious by the second.

"You barely touched your breakfast earlier, looks like you're about to collapse at any moment. I'm not even going to go into the lacklustre questioning of the boy's family this morning and now… now you lash out at _Fry_ for making a simple comment! Yes, granted, it wasn't the most tactful thing to say, but… Seriously, what has got _into _you?!"

He was dead set on ignoring her, and the last vestiges of Harry's patience were beginning to waver.

"There's something you're not telling me, Dempsey. I'm your partner, for God's sake! Whatever it is that's bothering you, I deserve to know!"

There was a slight shift in Dempsey's body, an almost imperceptible squaring of the shoulders, but he stood his silent ground.

Her rage went in crescendo, reached a peak at which point she was no longer able to keep the irritation out of her voice. "This is a horrific case. I _get_ that. But I have news for you, Lieutenant: It's unpleasant for _everyone_ involved, not just you!"

"_BACK OFF_!"

She flinched and took a step back, startled. He'd turned around in a flash and was now towering over her. His eyes had become much darker than usual as they pinned her down with a stare that could've melted steel. Harry suddenly felt small and vulnerable, fully aware of the size difference between them. A cold shiver rolled slowly up her spine, like an icy spur.

For the first time ever, Harry was afraid of him.

The feeling lasted merely a second or two, for his expression softened the moment he saw the fear in her eyes. He took a step back, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. A shaky breath escaped his lips: a desperate attempt to regain control. Still, he didn't speak, just dropped his hands to let them rest on his hips and let out a dry, humourless chuckle.

Too stunned to utter a word, Harry simply stood there, looking at him as if he were a stranger. Dempsey clenched his jaw refusing to make eye contact.

"Dammit, Makepeace!" he finally muttered brushing past her.

He pushed the door open with excessive force and disappeared into the corridor. A fleeting emotion had flashed across his face right before he left. Had it been contrition? Shame? Harry wasn't sure. Suddenly, there was an odd, painful void inside her chest.

All she knew as she stood alone and shaking in the middle of the empty locker room was that she wanted her partner back.

[To Be Continued…]

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_**MERRY CHRISTMAS & HAPPY HOLIDAYS, EVERYONE!** _


	5. Chapter 5

All right, here is Thursday's update. Enjoy!

**Lady Omenia**, **Quattro Queen**, **Castlefan68**, welcome! So glad you like the story so far.

And thanks to all of you who comment/follow the story. It is a pleasure to write, and develop a story when you know people enjoy it. You guys rock! ;P

A huge thanks to **Ostrich** for all the fun times, her support, *unbelievable* attention to detail, and that much needed "muse" kickin' sometimes… And, as always, thanks to **krato** for being a great inspiration and for catching all the little nuances used in British English.

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**CHAPTER 5**

_St. Malachy's Catholic Church, NYC 1960_

_James did not want to be there. It was what was expected of him. It was the right thing to do. Sean would have wanted him there, so he quietly sat next to his parents in the front pew of the old chapel while he tried to ignore the people around him with their probing glances and cheap words of empty comfort. But most of all, he tried to ignore the constant lashes of guilt and sorrow that had been torturing him ever since his brother's disappearance. _

_He looked up at the steeply pitched ceiling, marveled at the intricate design of multicolored glass adorning the windows, enthralled with the way the sunlight morphed into a rainbow of kaleidoscopic designs as it hit the cold stone walls. St. Malachy's had an unusual medieval feel to it—unusual for Midtown Manhattan, anyway. Perhaps he'd been born in the wrong place at the wrong time. The timeless mystique of old castles had always fascinated him. A whimsical era of brave knights and untainted honor as Hollywood often portrayed it. Maybe, if he was lucky, one day he'd get to visit a real castle. _

_His limited focus turned to Deacon Whelan, who kept delivering a never-ending sermon in a dull staccato, his thick Irish accent bouncing off the walls like a Celtic chant—words that held little meaning really, and did nothing to ease James' burden, much less erase the relentless pain. The welts of that horrific day were still too fresh in his memory. _

_He traced his fingers over the stitching grazing the edge of his right eyebrow resisting the urge to scratch it. The deep gash itched and hurt at the same time. It was driving him up the wall. On top of that, his necktie was uncomfortably tight and his dress shoes where half a size too small since the last time he'd worn them. He hated formalwear and felt trapped inside the dark polyester suit. _

_Tears welled in his eyes as he stared at the white wooden box propped before the altar.__He exhaled a lungful of air, tried to keep his breathing from coming out in quiet, short spurts only to make his lungs ache with the restrained effort._

It should've been him inside that casket.

_He was determined to not break down. The cacophony of prayers behind him gnawed at his nerves, but he held on to his own mantra: _Men do not cry. Men do not cry_._ Men do not cry…_ His rational brain was fighting a losing battle against his emotions, and when he heard his mother's hushed sobs at his side, he couldn't help but drown even further. _Men do not cry. Men do not cry. Men do not cry…

_The comforting squeeze of his uncle's hand on his shoulder brought him little solace, but at least made him feel less alone. Giovanni Lupino was his mother's younger brother and a New York City cop. He was tall and dark and the proud owner of a well groomed mustache he claimed gave him a certain degree of respectability. James wondered why a bona fide goofball such as his uncle Johnny put such emphasis on respectability; the badge, the gun and his bulky frame alone did a very good job of it. In his nephew's eyes, he was the epitome of a true American hero and the role model his father had failed to become. _

"_C'mon, Jimmy," uncle Johnny whispered near his ear. "It's time." _

_The end of Deacon Whelan's monochromatic spiel marked the dreaded moment. It must have been sheer adrenaline what prompted James to follow his parents down the aisle and up to the casket. He was numb, moved on autopilot while the world around him dissolved into a blur of whispers and quiet sobs. _

_He inched forward reluctantly, terrified of what he'd see. A longshoreman had found Sean's body under pier 88 two weeks after he'd gone missing. James wasn't sure what 'decomposition' meant exactly, but apparently it had been taken into consideration for the viewing. Flooded by a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity, he looked down at the inert body before him and a wave of nausea overtook him. The young boy lying inside the silk-lined casket looked nothing like his brother. The waxen, yellowish hue of the semi-broken skin was badly concealed under a thick layer of makeup. The lack of expression on his stony face was downright sinister. And then there was the perfectly combed hair and impeccably pressed black suit… It was like looking down at a mannequin. _

"_That ain't him," James whimpered tightly. "That ain't him."_

_A painful lump was lodged in his throat making it hard for him to breathe, impossible to swallow. His hands closed into tight fists at his sides. He could feel the familiar prickling behind his eyelids as his lips began to tremble. But his father's words echoed loudly inside his brain like rumbling thunder: _men do not cry, men do not cry, men do not cry…

_Unable to stand it a second longer, he took a shaky step back, desperate to get away. He stumbled towards the heavy wooden doors, almost falling as he dashed out of the chapel like a bat out of hell amidst gasps of surprise and reproach. He sped down 47__th __street, almost got hit by a car as he crossed 9__th__ Avenue, breezed past Hell's Kitchen Park and down two more blocks until he reached the Hudson shore. _

_It was at the river bank where he finally collapsed to his knees. He loudly cursed at a God he never cared to pray to while the inside of his chest exploded from heartache and exertion. Sweating profusely and gasping for air, James lost himself in the murky sight of the New York skyline. _

_He did not cry._

_ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_

South London, Saturday 11:43am

The rain had taken a brief break from its heavy downpour. A blond little girl was jumping from puddle to puddle much to her mother's chagrin while a burly, gray-haired gentleman, newspaper properly secured under his arm, looked at them disapprovingly from the bus stop. One missed step made the girl fall face down into one of the larger puddles drawing a high pitched yelp from her mother. The older man raised a pompous eyebrow at them. Harry watched the entire scene unfold and held back a smile.

They were parked near an empty children's playground in front of Cecile Bouchard's building. She was Anthony Midgley's teacher and one of the last few people to see the boy still alive. No one had come to the door after persistently ringing her bell twenty minutes ago. They were about to give up when an elderly lady, head full of curlers and in a floral robe that had seen better days, opened the door right across from Bouchard's flat. She had looked at them suspiciously before asking in an overtly nosey tone what their business was there. At the sight of their badges, she had become visibly flustered and exceedingly helpful, as she volunteered how "Cecile had just left to do the weekly shopping and should be back within the hour because her favorite soap started at noon and she never missed an episode." They also unwittingly found out about the boiler having been broken for two days now, the family on 3B always leaving the rubbish out before 7pm, and the caretaker's fondness for cheap single malt scotch. It hadn't been easy, but Makepeace had managed to extricate them from her verbal clutches with relative tactfulness. Thankfully, Dempsey hadn't been overly chatty, saving the chirpy woman the unpleasantness of his short-fused temper.

Once inside the Ford Escort, they went back to the uncomfortable silence they'd been sharing since they left the office that morning. Makepeace knew better than to expect an apology from him. In any case, she wasn't ready to forgive him for his transgression either, so it was a stale mate. Dempsey, on his part, had stepped out of the car at one point to smoke one of his cigars. Whether it had been out of courtesy or a dire need to get away from her, Harry wasn't entirely sure, although she suspected the latter. Obviously the tension between them was thick and sticky, but they were both too proud and too stubborn to make the first move toward reconciliation.

By the time Dempsey got back in the car, the rain had been reduced to a light drizzle and Harry rolled down the window just a sliver to breathe in the fresh winter air. The girl, her mother and the annoyed older gentleman were gone now. There was perfect stillness on the street, disrupted only by the steady wind that played with the last few leaves stubbornly hanging from the naked trees.

Christmas was right around the corner and she hadn't even started her gift shopping yet. Freddy would probably hold several parties at Winfield Hall over the next several weeks. Harry always enjoyed the family mansion during that time of year, with its magnificent ivy covered walls and old world feel. The grounds would be carpeted with a thick layer of snow, the trees lining up the entrance sprinkled with tiny golden lights, and the house filled with the scent of fresh pastries baking in the kitchen. The thought made Harry smile. Then, just as fast as it formed, the smile faded from her face.

Lord Cornwall would most likely be attending some of those gatherings. Breaking things off had never been her forte, not that anything had started yet between them, but she hadn't found a gentle way to tell him she was not interested. With any luck, he wouldn't be interested either, although judging by his expression of utter disappointment last night, that wasn't likely the case. Strangely enough, she had no trouble shooting down Dempsey's advances on a daily basis. Of course, she knew _he'd_ never give up.

Her heart did an unexpected flip and she gripped the steering wheel tightly, angry at herself for allowing him to intrude into her private thoughts so easily. She sighed and sent a furtive glance to the passenger side where Dempsey had been sulking for the last ten minutes without saying a word.

His head was tilted toward her, his lips slightly parted, and something deep within Harry inexplicably softened. To her mild surprise, he had fallen asleep. She observed him unabashed for several seconds, amazed at how much younger he looked in this relaxed state. The lines around his eyes and mouth were not as pronounced, and the ruggedness of his expression had been replaced by something she could only describe as _peacefulness_. Not for the first time she fought the urge to smooth a lock of dark hair away from his eyes. Makepeace scowled, mentally cursing the ease with which he managed to make her feel so conflicted.

_Damn him!_

Dempsey's hand suddenly twitched. A second later his body tensed and his brows drew into a soft frown. Harry watched as his breathing became increasingly ragged. Then, just as a whimper escaped his throat, he bolted upright with a sharp intake of breath and clearly disoriented. He took in his surroundings, visibly shaken, until his eyes finally landed on Harry's baffled face and, for a moment, he seemed embarrassed.

"She back yet?" he asked hoarsely.

He used the heels of his hands to rub off the bleariness in his eyes and the overall tiredness.

"No," she answered, trying to act as naturally as possible. "Shouldn't be too much longer now."

Dempsey nodded complacently, staring out the windshield without saying a word. The dreadful silence was back. Unable to stand it a second longer, Makepeace turned on the radio. Wham's _Last Christmas_ came through the speakers, easing the unspoken discomfort just a bit.

"… _xt day you gave it away. This year to save me from tears I'll give it to someone special._

_(Special)_

_Crowded room, friends with tired eyes. I'm hiding from you and your soul of ice._

_My God I thought you were someone to rely on. Me, I guess I was a shoulder to cry on." _

Had Harry been actually listening to the lyrics, she would have found them somewhat ironic. She kept absently watching the street, stuck on the longest stakeout in the history of her career and wondering if this woman's shopping trip might extend into the coming century. She had to say something. She had to break the ice somehow or she was going to go crazy. A stupid grudge, she decided, wasn't worth her sanity.

"Are you going back home for Christmas?"

Her voice was marginally less edgy than she had anticipated, although there was no hiding a hint of bitterness in her tone.

"Nah, New York's a nightmare this time o'year," he replied, equally bored by the uneventful emptiness of the rain soaked street.

"Really? It looks so pretty on television."

_Wow, could her words have sounded any triter? _

He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, "Not sayin' it ain't pretty. Just…"

Seeing as he had trailed off without any intention to finish the thought, Harry offered: "Just a big tourist trap, perhaps?" She was desperate to engage him, to clear the air between them. His reluctance was grating her nerves. She just _loathed_ the chasm that had opened between them. "I guess that could be said about a lot of big cities," she continued with a sigh. "I just thought you might want to visit your mum."

His reply came after a long pause, cold and cryptic.

"We stopped celebratin' Christmas a long time ago."

"Oh, I see."

But she didn't see. She couldn't imagine a Christmas away from her family. Even after her mother's passing, Freddy always made sure she received a special gift from her year after year. It had become such a tradition it was almost like having her there, sharing every special moment. Winfield Hall would always remind her of her mum. So many happy memories lingered around every corner of that old house. Harry's smile turned wistful.

"A penny for your thoughts."

Dempsey wasn't quite smiling, but his eyes were now warm as they focused on her. The soggy light the rainy day had left behind made them appear olive green. He had spoken softly, his comment a clear indication that he was willing to meet her half way. Wham's song slowly wound down and was replaced by an unfamiliar tune Harry didn't recognize.

"I was thinking about my mum. She died when I was fifteen."

"I'm sorry."

He sounded sincere, not a trace of hostility in his subdued voice.

"I still miss her. Especially this time of year," she admitted. "Daddy took it the hardest. He kept a brave front for me, but I think a part of him died along with her."

Harry wondered if she'd ever love someone the way her father had loved her mum. She remembered hearing his quiet sobs in his study for months after her death, the bitter feeling of helplessness that it had brought her.

"You really love him, don't you?"

Harry turned to Dempsey with a puzzled frown. "He is my dad!"

"Yeah, o'course. I didn't mean…" he backpedaled.

"Besides, you've met Freddy," she went on. "He's a charmer! Always the life of the party."

It was true. Never a dull moment when the old chap was around.

"Yeah, guess you don't really take after him then," Dempsey deadpanned.

Before she had a chance to take offence, the hint of a smile crept across Dempsey's face. Harry let out a quiet laugh, genuinely amused at his unexpected jab. But her partner didn't join in. Instead, his smile turned sour.

"Harry, 'bout before…"

"You don't need to say anything," she blurted out without thinking.

She had said it so fast it had sounded a little rude even to her own ears. She inwardly winced, feeling a tad silly.

"It's okay," she reassured softly.

But her heart was picking up speed and the car suddenly felt tiny. Why couldn't she take an honest apology from him? Had she actually been avoiding it all along? She could tell by the way he was looking at her that was precisely where the conversation was heading. It was like sitting near a fire during a blizzard: the warmth was nice and welcoming, but if you got too close you ran the risk of getting burned.

"Lemme finish," Dempsey pleaded.

His voice was deep, his expression solemn. Harry began to feel the heat, so she started playing with the delicate golden bracelet she was wearing desperate to keep the scorching flames at bay. He was not one to wear his heart in his sleeve, and yet…

"You've no idea how much…"

It was painfully obvious he was making a gargantuan effort to speak his mind. He pushed through the discomfort, taking his time, choosing his words carefully and never looking directly at her.

"Look, I know I can be insensitive and, well, pretty much a jerk sometimes," he started quietly. "I just never guessed I'd turn into…" He swallowed with great difficulty, tried to organize thoughts that seemed to elude him. "For a second back there I saw myself through _your_ eyes," he finally whispered.

She put her hand over his and gave it a friendly squeeze, letting him know that apologies were not necessary between them.

"Dempsey—"

"Bastard can still get to me," he breathed almost inaudibly.

Incandescent flames were licking at her own defenses, melting the edges of her resolve. There was no stopping it now, so she ventured into the fire.

"What's upsetting you so much?" she asked quietly.

Their eyes met—hers full of questions, his full of regret. Time evaporated and, for a brief eternity, the world stopped turning. Ethereal as a ghost, the moment vanished almost as fast as it had materialized. Dempsey's glance travelled over Harry's shoulder and focused on a woman attempting to open the front gate of the building while balancing several grocery bags in her arms.

"That's gotta be her."

[To Be Continued…]

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HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYBODY! I'll be travelling over the next week, so the next update will be on Friday (I hope), instead of Thursday. :-)


	6. Chapter 6

Well, it's Thursday, so…

Welcome to the story, **Duann.** I'm happy that you are enjoying it so far.

To everyone else following and commenting on the fic, thank you for your support. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I do writing it.

And, as always, thanks to **Ostrich** for her wonderful reviews and suggestions, and to **Krato** for being such an awesome inspiration.

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**CHAPTER 6**

South London, Saturday 12:36pm

Her name was Miss Marple. She was big and furry and observed the busy room quietly from her perched position on the window sill. Had her space not been invaded by the two strangers, she'd be enjoying the tepid rays of sunlight filtering into the living room before hiding, as they often did, behind ominous looking clouds. As it was, she gauged the situation carefully, trusting her instincts when she decided to leap down and approach the sofa with the utmost stealth.

Dempsey smiled at the tricolored fur ball that padded wearily toward him and reached out to her with his palm up to let her get used to his scent. He liked animals in general, and although he was more of a dog kind of guy, he seemed to have found just the right spot behind the cat's ears to set Miss Marple off on a purring frenzy.

Cecile Bouchard smiled at the sight as she carefully filled three cups of tea and set a plate of homemade biscuits on the coffee table. She rolled her eyes at the feline sounds of sheer delight, and let out a deep sigh.

"Now, now, Miss Marple," she cooed. "Don't you bother our guests."

She was a big framed woman in her fifties. Her plain, yet well groomed appearance added to her aura of simplicity. She wore her greying hair tied up in a neat bun, and a dress that might have gone out of style five years ago, but seemed to suit her demure personality just as well. She was one of those people whose smile could brighten anybody's day.

"T's okay," Dempsey murmured, running his fingers under the cat's chin and increasing the volume of the purring by a couple of decibels. "You're a big girl, aren't ya."

Miss Marple started rubbing the length of her side against his shins, guiding his fingers along her woolly haunch, and butting his hand with her head encouragingly as she went. Makepeace was aware of Dempsey's soft spot for animals and children. It was yet another aspect of his personality that seemed at odds with his tough-as-nails exterior. She had totally misjudged him at first, although, to be fair, he had joined SI10 reluctantly and had not been overly keen on making friends on this side of the pond at first. He had certainly earned his rebellious reputation justly.

But now, sitting next to him on Bouchard's sofa, Harry wondered what her colleagues would really think of Dempsey if they knew him as well as she did.

"We're sorry to bother you on a Saturday, Ms. Bouchard, but we need to ask you some questions about Anthony," she said focusing on the case while she lifted a teacup with its saucer off the table.

Bouchard sat delicately on the armchair opposite them.

"Yes, of course," she uttered, her eyes sad. There was a barely noticeable French accent in her speech that hung to certain words. "Ask me anything. His disappearance came as such a shock to all of us. I pray they find him soon. He's such a dear boy."

Makepeace and Dempsey exchanged a knowing glance, fast but loaded.

"I take it you haven't heard yet," Dempsey said.

It wasn't much of a surprise. Neither the murder, nor the identity of the child, had been released to the public. He rested his forearms on his knees and clasped his hands together, much to Miss Marple's disappointment. Letting out a long breath, he turned to Makepeace, raising his eyebrows in a gesture that clearly meant: _"Alright, partner, breaking bad news to people is your department." _Makepeace nodded slowly in silent acknowledgement and set her lips in a thin line while she carefully chose her words.

"Anthony's body was found last night."

She was guarded as well as considerate. After all, she didn't want to divulge too much—not yet. Even though the killer had been determined to be male, nobody at this stage was above suspicion as there could have been more than one perpetrator. Bouchard's reaction, however, seemed quite genuine. She was covering her mouth with trembling hands and regarding them with huge, glassy eyes. Pure horror was written all over her round face. Almost instantly, her entire body began to visibly quiver as she shook her head in denial. Sudden tears that had been holding onto her mascara laden lashes now rolled freely down her cheeks, leaving a dark trail in their wake.

"Oh my God!" she finally mumbled. "_H-how? _Oh… God!"

Makepeace could only take a guess at the jumble of incoherent questions running through the woman's mind at that point. She felt a nurturing urge to hug her, but quickly dismissed it as rather inappropriate, so she remained quiet and gave her a moment to come to terms with the dreadful news.

"We need to know who Anthony was," Dempsey probed, dismissing the teacher's grief as if it were a mild inconvenience to the impending investigation. His impatience trampled all over Harry's finesse. The gentle animal lover was gone, replaced in the blink of an eye by the terse detective.

"Who he was?" Bouchard parroted, clearly dazed.

"Yes," Dempsey pressed curtly. "I wanna know who his friends were, his teachers… Who he hung out with, who picked him up from school, what were his hobbies, places he'd frequent… Anythin' could help us, so think hard about this. Any little detail could set us in the right direction."

"H-his family can probably give you a better idea," she said meekly. The napkin she was holding in her hands was now a pathetic wad of sodden tissue. "I mean, they'd probably be able to answer—"She broke down again, unable to get the words out.

"We're tryin' to get a clear picture of who the boy was from the people closest to him." Dempsey's voice had a tinge of hostility to it. Makepeace grazed his knee with her knuckles, commanding his attention as subtly as she could, but he ignored her and barged on. "Time's important, Ms. Bouchard."

"I—I… He's _dead_?"

"Yes, we've been assigned to investigate his murder," he said with the delicacy of an elephant stomping through Tiffany's.

Bouchard broke into a tide of incontrollable sobs she failed to thwart by holding a tightly pressed fist against her mouth.

"Look, you can answer our questions here, or do so in one of our interrogation rooms."

"It's all right, Lieutenant," Makepeace swiftly cut in, making sure Dempsey caught a glimpse of her berating glance. "I'm sure Ms. Bouchard just needs to take a minute to gather her thoughts."

The ghostly looking woman nodded weakly, mumbled an apology as she stood up, and left the room.

"Dempsey!" Makepeace whispered rotating on the sofa to face him. "'You can answer our questions in one of our interrogation rooms?' Bloody hell, could you have been any less sensitive?"

"Oh, yeah, 'cause I'm usually the High Priest of Empathy," he mocked in the same quiet voice she'd used. "We need answers, Makepeace. We need solid leads, witness cooperation, a sound theory… What we don't need is people beating 'round the bush as if time was on our side! Jesus Christ!"

"Calm down!" she urged poignantly.

His temper was beginning to get the better of him and, given his recent behaviour, she was afraid he might jump off the sofa, drag the poor lady by the hair and attempt to drown her in the bathtub unless she answered his questions. Of course, the way he had handled the boy's family that morning, he might as well have offered to brew a second pot of her favourite tea. Thankfully, he looked too exhausted to do either.

"Look, I agree with you, okay?" Harry appeased. "But frightening this poor woman is not going to get you the answers you want, so would you please let me handle the questioning from this point on?"

He exhaled loudly and leaned forward to pick up the cup of tea that had been placed before him. "Sure. Be my guest," he said listlessly. He took a sip of the steaming beverage and grimaced. "I guess askin' her for a cup o' coffee is outta the question."

"What? It is quite good," she said, arching an eyebrow and taking another sip.

Dempsey was about to say something when Bouchard returned from her minute and a half exile, marginally less wan than when she had left. She sat back down on the armchair looking years older than she did before, and took a quiet sip of tea.

"Anthony is… _was_ one of my best students," she said in a languid monotone. "He liked participating in class, did his homework on time and always kept his supplies neat and well organised. He was a _good _boy." She absently traced a feathered finger around the rim of the cup, her stare fixed on a random spot somewhere in space. "Who could do such a thing? Oh, God! I can't believe he's gone!"

"I realise this is hard," Harry said soothingly.

From the corner of her eye she saw Dempsey fiddling with a teaspoon. He had granted her wish to take the lead with Bouchard much against his will and she could feel his agitation. The odd thing was that, under normal circumstances, he would have been the one suggesting _she_ asked all the questions. In fact, he'd ramble on about how "questioning broads made him dizzy". Unless, of course, they were the "young and leggy" type, in which case he had no problem extracting all the information he needed, however deplorable his methods might often be. But these weren't normal circumstances, and Makepeace figured she'd better tread carefully.

"I will tell you everything I can about Anthony," Bouchard finally said. There was unmistakeable strength in her statement. "Just… _please_ find whoever did this to him."

_ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo_

The temperature was dropping by the second and the evening loomed promising snow. Makepeace could have sworn she had locked the car door before they had walked into the building, but her thoughts had been clouded by a myriad of emotions at the time, so she couldn't be one hundred percent sure. The doubt haunted her for only a second, as the bitter cold bit fiercely into her cheeks, ears and nose. She switched on the engine the moment they got in, hoping it would warm the inside of the cabin somewhat. Rubbing her arms vigorously, she watched her breath come out in a smoky haze that disappeared into thin air almost instantly.

"For Godsakes!" Dempsey protested mimicking her futile attempts to warm up. "When're you people gonna install heating in your damn cars!"

"What are you saying, Dempsey?" she grated, getting her shivering under control by sheer will. "Is London weather too ghastly for a tough, New York City cop?"

"Babe, I work with you. I'm used to Arctic temperatures," he shot back blowing into his fists to get rid of the numbness that had taken a hold of his fingertips. "That don't mean cars gotta feel like igloos!"

"Actually, the temperature inside of an igloo can be quite comfortable," she informed casually.

"Wow! Ain't that fascinating!" He snickered. "Can we focus on the case now?"

Makepeace sent him a sidelong glance bursting with disdain. He wasn't the only one who was having a hard time with the investigation. The more she found out about Anthony Midgley, the more repulsed she felt by the heinous bastard who had taken his life. The mere thought of such a monster roaming the streets of London marauding for his next victim made her physically ill. She shivered, except this time the cold had little to do with it.

"So, according to Bouchard, Anthony was your average eleven year old boy," she began, recapping the key points from the conversation with the teacher. "He was kind to others, did well in school, participated in extracurricular activities…"

"That really what you got from what she said?" Dempsey asked eyebrow arched.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean a model student like that was probably picked on by every other kid in his class," he shrugged in a way that left little doubt he believed his assumption to be the absolute truth.

"Of course!" she retorted with disdain. His overconfident attitude was already irking her. "A bully like _you_ would assume that, right Dempsey?"

"Ouch, Makepeace!" he said clutching his chest and pretending to be wounded by her statement. "A bully… That what you really think I was growin' up?"

She brushed his question off, particularly his choice of the word "was", in lieu of a defiant assessment.

"He couldn't have been as unpopular as you paint him. After all, he was an athlete."

Dempsey looked confused for a second. "An athlete? Oh, you mean the soccer thing," he snorted. "Aw, come on! That don't even count!"

Makepeace felt a rush of indignation flowing through her veins. Having never had an iota of interest in the sport, she felt her inner hooligan rise up like a Titan in the midst of a tidal wave. The change in temperature inside the car was now palpable, and the windows were already showing early signs of fogging.

"It is called _football_," she shot back. "And I suppose a game where men in tights try to catch a small ball with a huge mitten is much more riveting."

"It ain't a mitten. It's a glove," he corrected.

"I _know_ it's called a glove," she gritted watching him through narrow eyes. "The same way _you_ know we call it football. I can also play this bloody mind game, Lieutenant. Now, can we please move on?"

"Yeah," he said looking tremendously bemused. "Better move on 'fore you start usin' my head as a _football_."

So, apparently her wish had come true: her partner was back and, frustrating as it was to deal with him, it was infinitely better than facing the stranger who had stood before her earlier that morning. Harry had the dreadful feeling though, there were remnants of his darker self looming below the surface. She pushed that thought away, but like an unwelcomed guest it lingered in her mind.

"In any case," she continued with a sigh, "none of his classmates were responsible for his murder so, where does that leave us?"

"Lookin' for an adult… Someone close to him," Dempsey replied. "Someone he trusted enough to jump inside a car with, or maybe lure him somewhere."

"There were no signs of struggle found on his body," she agreed, easily following his train of thought. She tried to picture the scenario, found it impossible to fathom someone having the cold blood to do something so atrocious."That monster... To do something like this, especially this time of year... It's..."

"Don't go there, Harry," Dempsey said dryly. "Think like a cop. Focus on the evidence."

"I know, I know," she conceded closing her eyes momentarily and wishing her bubbling emotions away. "I'm trying to remain detached, but... _God!_"

"Makepeace..." His tone was stern, but there was a certain hitch to it. "I need you to be strong on this one. You can't lose it on me, you hear me? You gotta..." he trailed off, but there was a trace of apprehension in his expression that Harry could not explain.

She nodded in silent agreement. He was right. They had a job to do and emotions could not, _should not,_ factor into it.

"All right," she continued, surfing on a wave of inner strength. "Do we know if his mom was dating anybody? Did she have friends over? Someone she might have met recently? Dammit! I wish she had been a little bit more open this morning!"

"She will be soon," Dempsey assured her. "Give her time to digest the bad news. We'll get more outta her once she's had time to process what's happened. In the mean time, we gotta come up with a list of possible suspects. Anybody close enough to the kid to have earned his trust."

"What about the uncle? There was something about him this morning…"

"Yeah, I know whatcha mean. The guy creeped me out."

Makepeace exhaled loudly, her composure faltering. _He couldn't be serious!_

"So why on _earth _didn't you…?!" She bit her lip. The last thing she wanted right now was another confrontation like they'd had earlier—anything but that. "Never mind," she finally mumbled unable to hide her frustration.

Dempsey, on the other hand, was not as eager to dismiss the subject.

"That woman…" he began quietly, saving her the trouble to steer the conversation elsewhere. "She just saw her kid's dead body on a metal table." He sounded hollow, his tone void of any emotion. "I figured she needed some time to… to cope, y'know. Screw the uncle! I'll deal with him later."

Was that the reason for his strange behaviour down at the morgue? He actually _felt_ for the mother who had just lost her only child? Dempsey's humanity was like lightning: intense, powerful and unexpected. And, under the circumstances, it could be just as dangerous.

"Yes, I know," she softly agreed. "But it is our duty to gather as much information as we can as soon as possible, and that includes questioning every single witness at our disposal. Time is not a luxury here."

"You think I don't know that?" he hissed, anger flaring. His eyes bore into her with accusation. "That lady was in shock, Makepeace. We wouldn't've been able to get anythin' outta her if we tried!"

"Then we get it out of her brother!" she snapped. "Besides, Bouchard was equally shocked! But that didn't stop you from almost dragging her down to headquarters to interrogate her! Damn it, Dempsey! If there's something about this case that is preventing you from doing your job, you have _got_ to tell me!"

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. She could sense the storm brewing inside him, wild and unpredictable. An unmistakable surge of adrenaline shot through her body, prompting the familiar fight or flight sensation she'd only experienced in the midst of a gunfight. The heat and humidity inside the car were rapidly increasing, the street outside barely visible anymore beyond the fogged up windows.

"You better not be suggestin' what I think you're suggestin'", he snarled darkly. "I swear if you _dare_ run off to Spikings and—"

"Dempsey!"

The panic in that whispered word had nothing to do with her partner's threat or menacing attitude. She suddenly froze, chilled to the bone as she stared at the windshield, blatant horror reflecting off the blue depths of her eyes.

Etched on the misty glass and sweating with condensation, three clearly defined letters had taken shape before them:

**_G d R_**

[To Be Continued...]


	7. Chapter 7

Happy Thursday everyone!

Thank you _all_ for commenting/following the story. I'm loving this little corner of the D&M universe.

I'd like to extend my gratitude to **Ostrich**, her eagle eye and superb suggestions make the process a lot of fun. And to **Krato**, whose wonderful creativity and writing skills inspired me to write this fic.

This is kind of a long one so, without further ado, here's the chapter. Enjoy!

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**CHAPTER 7**

Egerton Crescent, Chelsea, 4:51pm

By the time Dempsey and Makepeace got to SI10 headquarters, it was already past lunch time. They had gone to New Scotland Yard to pick up Dempsey's Mercedes and drop off Harry's Ford at the forensic garage three levels below the building. The probability of finding further evidence aside from the disturbing letters on the windshield was slim, but no matter how shrewd the criminal might be, the chance that he might slip up and make a mistake could not be overlooked.

After grabbing a quick bite at the canteen, they made their way to their work stations where, true to Dr. Smith's word, a copy of the forensics report awaited for them on their desks. Chas and Fry were on their way out as they walked in, and informed them there was a snow storm brewing and that Spikings, out of caution, had sent most people home. Only a skeleton crew was to stay put to cover the evening and night shifts. Fry had been tiptoeing around Dempsey throughout the exchange, clearly on edge as he handed him the extensive compilation of names and addresses neatly organized inside a ring binder. When he received a sincere "great work, kid!" from the Lieutenant, his mood seemed to instantly lift.

Following their boss' orders, they headed over to Harry's place to read through the extensive report Dr. Smith's team had put together. By the time Dempsey had parked in front of her townhouse, snow was falling hard and visibility had been reduced to a fuzzy haze.

"Would you like a cup of tea or do you prefer wine?" Harry called from the kitchen.

Dempsey was down on one knee in front of the fireplace. He had lit up a twisted bundle of newspaper pages that he was carefully placing under the neatly stacked logs, using the poker to liven up the fire.

"Ya even need ta ask?"

"Wine it is," she mumbled to herself grabbing two glasses from the cupboard, a bottle of _Brunello di Montalcino_ and a corkscrew.

The small Christmas tree she had set up in the corner of the room came to life the moment the timer hit 5 o'clock, sparkling with different colours and making the already cosy living area even more so. She knelt down by the coffee table and tried to find a spot to place the two glasses somewhere within the mount of files and folders her partner had scattered all over the surface. She figured she'd let Dempsey pull the cork out—he was better at it anyway.

"Italian wine, huh?" he said inspecting the bottle with interest.

"I thought it would make you feel right at home," she said trying to find a comfortable spot on the floor. "Part of you, at least."

"Thanks, angel, but I ain't never been to Italy," he confessed as he worked the bottle with dexterity.

"That's a pity." She had spent one of the best summers of her life in Tuscany at the age of fourteen. "It's a beautiful country."

"The food's great, that's for sure. My mother makes a Bolognese that'd knock your socks off," he assured her twisting the cork out of the corkscrew.

She regarded him from the opposite side of the table while he quietly read the label. He would do that sometimes: offer a peek into his life, a single drop of information to wet her curiosity, leaving her always thirsty for more. Not that she ever made a point to inquire further. In the end, it was best to keep their relationship as professional as possible in order to avoid complications. She'd made that mistake in the past, and all it got her was a failed marriage and a divorce decree. Besides, it wasn't like she ought to expect something from him she, herself, never offered.

"Let's call the principal first thing tomorrow," Dempsey said scanning the long list of names before him. "Tell him to set aside some time for the staff to be questioned Monday mornin', the sooner the better. We should start with the teachers and then move onto the folks over in the administration. Leave support staff for last."

"Why is that?"

"Think about it, Makepeace. Would a cafeteria lady have the knowhow or the skill to get away with somethin' like this?"

"So you are convinced the killer is someone who works for the school," she stated, leaning her back against the sofa. "Is the boy's uncle no longer part of your list of suspects?"

"Oh, he's at the top. Right up there with our mystery nobleman. But they got nothin' to do with the school, as far as we know. Let's take it one step at a time. We'll take on the Lycée in the mornin'." He smirked at Harry, daring her to correct his atrocious diction, and drawing an amused chuckle from her instead. "If Uncle Refrigerator hasn't called to assist with the investigation by noon, we'll pay him a visit right after we're done there."

"Well, if that's the way you want to play it, we should talk to the janitor on Monday morning too," she proposed. "He probably knows the school grounds better than anyone, and might have seen or heard something others may have overlooked."

He smiled at her crookedly across the table and poured several fingers of wine into both glasses.

"What?" she asked, bewildered at his enigmatic reaction.

"I think I'm rubbin' off on ya, princess," he said looking at her through thick lashes. "Talkin' to... erm, 'janitors' ain't never been your first course of action, as I recall."

"Are you calling me a snob, Dempsey?" she teased, taking a careful sip. "Or are you suggesting I'm not thorough enough at my job?"

"Don't get touchy…" he said defensively, pondered for a moment, and added mischievously, "Okay, you _can_ get touchy." When her frown deepened, he chuckled. "You're sharp as they come, Harry. All I'm sayin' is my methods is different from yours, s'all."

The offhanded compliment made her blush. He had only started openly praising her as a partner recently, yet flattering as it was, it still took some getting used to. She took another sip of the wine while admiring the playful game of light and shadows cast by the dancing fire.

"Best if we make a list of the people we wanna talk to first." Dempsey kept sorting through the printouts Chas had given them. There were hundreds of names, organized by job title and length of time employed by the school. It included telephone numbers, aliases, and even a brief criminal history on each person (all of them clean, not surprisingly). The boys had been quite methodical. He rubbed his cheek, deep in thought. "I'm gonna want you there."

Harry lifted her head to look at him, eyebrows raised. "I beg your pardon?"

"We should both be there when we talk to these people," he insisted waving the pages at her. "I know it'd be faster if we split up, but there's a bigger chance we might miss somethin'. Plus we can always pull the 'good cop, bad cop' routine. That's always fun."

"Oh, yeah… yes," she stammered, shifting in place.

_Good Lord! Better slow down with the wine_, she thought.

They moved onto the forensics report, spent the following hour and a half going over the gruesome findings in relative silence, studying every detail, every angle to the case.

"So the time of death occurred sometime between Monday night and Tuesday morning," Dempsey said, rubbing the tiredness out of his eyes. "Now we just gotta find out when and how the body was transported to Lambeth."

"What about the lab tests?" Harry asked.

"The semen analysis came back inconclusive for drug use, venereal disease or any other health condition," Dempsey replied while reading the page in question. Some of the results wouldn't be back until later in the week. "Hell, they can't even tell if the guy's little soldiers are fit to swim!"

"They did extract some DNA successfully," Harry countered.

"Yeah, but that can only help us when we actually _arrest_ someone for the murder," he pointed. "Even if we manage to get a sample outta our suspect, and legally speakin' that's a big IF when it comes to these new fancy 'shmancy' methods, a judge ain't never gonna admit somethin' so… _out there_ into evidence."

"You might be right about that," she sighed.

"See? Contrary to Spikings' beliefs, I do think of these things."

"Okay, so what about the inscription itself?" Harry posed.

They had gone over those three creepy letters so many times already—one guess crazier than the next—they had eventually given up on trying to make sense of them. After the windshield incident with Harry's car, the entire SI10 team began to ponder on its meaning, but no one could figure out whether GdR was a name, a place, a song, a book, a nickname…

"What about it?" Dempsey asked.

"According to this, it was written in petroleum jelly."

"Wow, okay… I was expecting somethin' else."

"Really? Like what?"

Dempsey picked up his wine glass and took a slow sip, but did not answer the question.

"Like what?" she insisted full of curiosity.

"Let's just say I got a smutty mind," he said with a half shrug.

It took a couple of seconds for it to dawn on Makepeace. "You thought it was…?

"Hey, the guy's as sick as they come…" he said defensively. "No pun intended."

"Moving on," she groaned picking up another folder and trying hard to erase the repulsive mental picture. "The graphologist paints him as manipulative, controlling and meticulous."

"And with balls the size of Texas," Dempsey added. "The bastard's taunting us."

"That fits the profile. She describes him as extremely arrogant, someone who has trouble with authority and who tends to push boundaries."

"Lemme guess," Dempsey interrupted, lifting his hand to stop her. "He's a bed wetter who has major issues with mommy dearest and used to torture animals when he was a child."

"What are you trying to say? You think her findings are not worth taking into consideration?"

"I'm sayin' I ain't got no graphitologist trainin'—"

"_Graphologist_," she corrected.

"—Whatever! Thing is, I can also come up with a pretty accurate description of this sickass psychopath just the same."

"All right, so where do we start?" she exhaled, placing the palm of her hand on her forehead.

"Where we always do," he replied easily. "Doin' some good ole fashioned legwork."

"According to this list, we have some heavy legwork ahead of us."

"Yeah, well, life's hard and then you die," he yawned.

It was obvious Dempsey was already running on empty, the redness in his eyes spoke louder than his reassurances to the contrary. Harry refused to argue with him about it, not finding his crass comment pertaining to his stamina particularly funny. To make matters worse, as far as she could tell, he was barely eating. She wasn't sure how long he could keep this up, and was afraid his stubbornness might land him in hospital.

The weather outside turned gradually more dreadful when night began to fall. The wind kept pushing angrily against the windows, a restless intruder on a mission to break the peace. All of a sudden, a crash was heard at the front door. They exchanged a puzzled glance and warily stood up. Dempsey pulled his revolver out of the holster, which had been discarded along with his jacket on top of the sofa, while Makepeace grabbed her own gun from inside the bureau's drawer, where she always kept it.

Slowly, they both paced towards the front door with the stealth of a panther and pressed their backs against the wall on either side, listening attentively for a few seconds. Unfortunately, the fury of the wind drowned every other noise. Dempsey grabbed the door knob firmly and looked over at his partner. He counted to three under his breath before releasing the safety lock on his Colt Python. As he swung the door open, he swivelled on his heels holding the gun with both hands; arms stretched out in front of him for stability, he steadily tightened his finger on the trigger. Makepeace was kneeling behind the door right beside him, ready to spring into action at the slightest sign of trouble. Only when she noticed Dempsey lowering his arms slowly, did the tension in her body lift in a series of waves. She let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding and lowered her weapon.

"Wind knocked down your fancy plant," Dempsey informed.

Harry opened the door all the way to see one of the triple ball myrtle topiaries sprawled on the floor. The English ivy urn that had been holding it was broken beyond repair, as well as its pedestal. She shivered from the bitter cold piercing through the thin fabric of her cashmere sweater. Her small yard was now fully covered in frosty white.

"Stupid wind!" she cursed, feeling ill at ease but unable to pinpoint the reason why.

"Yeah…"

Dempsey kept looking past her fence into the darkness, blinking against the savage sting of the blizzard. His hair was blowing in all different directions, his shirt flapping violently against his body as he took a tentative step past the threshold. He was still holding his gun with both hands, the barrel pointed towards the ground, and appeared to be far from relaxed.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked, hugging her body for warmth.

He clenched his jaw, the angry gusts forcing him to breathe through his teeth with difficulty. "Not sure."

"Come on, Dempsey," she urged, placing her hand on his arm. "The last thing we need right now is to catch pneumonia."

He nodded, pulling his eyes from the yard reluctantly and closing the door behind them. They went back to the living room and tried to focus on the paperwork again, but they were too edgy and too exhausted to be able to concentrate for much longer.

"It's getting late, and I can't even see straight anymore," she confessed closing her eyes and rubbing her neck. "Why don't we call it a night?"

"You kickin' me out, babe?" he joked.

"Do I look like Cruella Deville?" she chuckled, collecting the two glasses and the empty bottle from the coffee table. "You're sleeping here tonight." She caught a glimpse of his impish grin before she left the room and shook her head, amused at his incorrigible ways. "Besides," she continued on her way back from the kitchen, "I'll need a ride in the morning."

He was about to say something when the shrill of the telephone cut his reply short. Harry picked it up on the third ring, shrugging mockingly at his missed opportunity for shameless flirtation.

"Hello," she greeted, cheerfully. When she heard the voice at the other end, her smile faded slightly. She turned her back to Dempsey and spoke quietly. "Oh, hi Roger."

"_Am I disturbing you?"_

"No, not at all," she lied. "How are you?"

"_Better if I were next to you. I wouldn't mind a gorgeous policewoman protecting me from this dreadful weather." _

Harry didn't respond. She wasn't particularly keen on feeding Lord Cornwall's advances at the moment. Her mind grasped at a way to end the phone call as subtly and painlessly as possible, but she'd had two and a half glasses of wine, and her brain refused to think as sharply as she would have liked. She tried hard to find something to say to him, but came up empty. After a lengthy silence, he spoke again.

"_I… I was wondering how you were doing. I called your office and they told me you had left early."_

"Yes, I did. I had to…" she closed her eyes, keenly aware of Dempsey's presence behind her. "Listen, Roger… I'm going over an important case at the moment. Is it all right if I call you back in a bit?"

The pause came across the line oozing disillusionment.

"_Of course, darling. I'll be at the Belgravia loft until tomorrow. You have the number, right?"_

"I do. I'll talk to you later."

It didn't take long after she placed the phone back on its cradle for Dempsey to make one of his usual jabs.

"Mr. Cold Shower, I presume."

She was in no mood for jokes at the moment and turned to him with a great deal of exasperation. Her acid retort, however, was brought to a halt by the lack of humour in his eyes.

"He's just a friend," she mumbled instead.

_Why did she feel the need to explain? This was none of his business… _

"Right," he simply said; his expression impossible to read.

"He just wanted to make sure I made it home okay," she rambled on. "The wea—"

"Hey, there! It ain't none of my business, princess," he cut in with a chuckle, but there was a certain bite to his tone. An instant later, his typical crudeness returned in full force. "I'll step out so you guys can get it on over the phone. Oh, 'n be 's loud as you want. I've heard it all. Woudja like me to give the guy some pointers? Cause I know a coupla tricks that'd make ya go wil—"

"You're such a_ pig,_" she snarled stomping out of the room.

Anger was as much to blame as bashfulness for the incandescent burning of her cheeks. Strangely, though, something in the pit of her stomach kept fluttering wildly at the lascivious image he had just planted in her mind.

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_Theater District, Midtown Manhattan 1960_

_James felt the first drops of sweat on his forehead as he climbed the narrow steps of the apartment building. His right arm was beginning to get numb from the weight of the grocery filled basket, so he switched to the left one, let it do some of the work. By the time he reached the third floor he was winded, and began cursing the old building for not having an elevator, but reminded himself for the umpteenth time that month how the little wages Mr. Leibowitz paid him to do all home deliveries would get him closer to the 1948 Indian Chief motorcycle he was hoping to afford in a couple of years. He doubted he could ever get into the 1951 Studebaker Starlight he'd always wanted; not on 65 cents per delivery, anyways. _

_Using both arms now to tote the increasingly heavy basket, he wobbled down the gloomy hallway until he finally made it to apartment 3D at the far end, and set the load on the floor while he struggled to catch his breath. Thankfully, fall had graced the island with its presence, bringing along a much needed drop in temperature. Still, it felt stuffy in there, plus the heavy floral design of the carpet and dark wall paneling always made James feel a little claustrophobic. On the other hand, this particular route had an interesting 'up' side, and that alone made his smile turn wicked. _

_He was getting ready to knock when the door swung open, catching him fist in the air and totally off guard. He ran his hand through his hair and squared his shoulders, hoping to stand a little taller. As he had expected, a dazzling looking woman held the door open for him. _

"_Hi Miss Holliday" he greeted, his voice catching a bit as he took in the sight of the sheer robe she was wearing. It loosely clung to her naked form and hugged every one of her curves leaving very little to the imagination. She kept in incredible shape for someone deep into her forties._

_Sandy Holliday, artistic name by modern vernacular, offered him a warm smile and stood to the side to grant him easier access. Jet black hair cascaded in waves down her back, a striking contrast to the immaculate paleness of her skin. Her dreamy eyes lured him in. They were almond shaped and of a hypnotic hazel tone. There was a distinctive scent in the small studio apartment, something intoxicatingly feminine; something that scared and excited James at the same time. _

"_My goodness, Jimmy! You keep growing taller every time I see you!" _

_Trying hard not to blush, he carried the groceries all the way into the tiny kitchen, totally failing to be as delicate as he'd wished when propping the basket on top of the counter. His arms were shaking from prolonged strain, or so he thought. But then, why the hell was the rest of his body shaking as well? _

"_Think nothin's missin'," he smiled timidly. _

_Much as he wanted to fight it, his eyes nervously darted away from her body. He tucked his hands inside the back pockets of his jeans, hoping to dry the sweat off his palms or, at the very least, keep the fidgeting to a minimum. There was something about that lady that made it physically impossible for him to stand still. _

"_Yes," she agreed leaning against the archway that separated the main living space from the kitchen, and without even checking the basket, she added, "Nothing is missing."_

_She took a long drag from the slim cigarette she had been holding and observed him through a curtain of smoke that materialized between them when she exhaled. James swallowed hard, once again avoiding her stare. He failed to look casual as he walked past her on his way out the kitchen. _

"_How are you holding up?" _

_There was concern in her voice, but the subject matter was like a dark cloud gliding over the sun, and James simply shrugged. He was tired of the same question, tired of answering with a non-committal "I'm okay" every single time. Why was everyone so interested in how he felt? More often than not, it wasn't even genuine concern what motivated people to ask anyway. It was morbid curiosity. So he simply hid behind a brave façade, shut the rest of the world out and moved on with his life. His behavior might have been perceived as cold and insensitive to those who didn't bother to dig a little deeper beneath the surface. _

"_Hey…" _

_The softness in her voice poured honey all over his sour thoughts. She walked up to him, took both his hands in hers to give them a welcoming squeeze. He was tall for his age, yet a couple of inches shorter than she was, and when he lifted his head to face her, she offered him such a nurturing smile it made him want to curl up in her arms and sob. _

"_It'll get easier, you'll see," she uttered soothingly. Kind fingers sailed through his hair and turned his mistrust into submission easier that he could have ever expected. It made the initial awkwardness just melt away. She gently tucked a thick lock of hair behind his right ear and kissed the aching scar on his eyebrow. _

_James could detect the faint scent of brandy on her breath. She took one last drag of the cigarette and extinguished it on a heavy ashtray made of thick glass molded into an odd shape. It had a dual function as a paperweight, placed over what looked like a stack of pages from a script. Next to it, half hidden among the clutter plaguing the antique chest, was an open bottle of sleeping pills. _

_She carefully sat on the edge of the king sized bed that took up most of the space inside the tiny studio. The bed was still unmade, and James felt the irrepressible desire to crawl under the shiny silk sheets and hide forever from the world. He was either overly transparent, or her woman's intuition was beyond spooky, because she apparently had read his mind perfectly._

"_It's okay if you don't want to talk. You've been so brave," she cooed, her voice softer than cotton. "C'mere…" _

_She pulled him into a warm embrace and began whispering soothing words near his ear like his mother used to do every time he had a nightmare. Somehow, the comforting touch of Miss Holliday made him feel tremendously safe—safer than he'd felt in months. His arms curled around her shoulders as he clung to her, allowing himself to wallow in the moment, let the grief and the shame be washed away by her words. _

_The initial tension had already fled his body when her lips came to rest on the crook of his neck. Her hands began a slow trek up and down his back. Enjoying the feeling, James relaxed against her body. After a while, her caress became a little bolder. Her hands roamed his lower back unhurriedly, and then travelled in lazy strokes along his hips. James closed his eyes when she planted a soft kiss on the side of his neck, then another one on his temple, on his cheek, the corner of his mouth, until she finally reached her target and kissed his lips, softly at first, and then more hungrily._

_James tensed up and stood very still for a surreal moment. Sure, he had kissed a couple of girls in the neighborhood before, but the innocent lip locking with Mary O'Malley behind the bleachers at school had felt nothing like this. _

_She let out a small gasp against his mouth, prompting James to open up to her and respond to her needs. He clumsily tried to follow her lead, wasn't even sure what to do with his hands, so he just let them rest limply on her shoulders. He was more concerned at the moment with other parts of his anatomy over which, to his horror, he had completely lost control. _

_Shit! _

_But his self-control was no match against the way she kept rubbing his inner thigh. The kiss kept growing deeper and wetter, and when James thought he was about ready to explode she pulled back, leaving his trembling body screaming in protest. A guttural sound of disappointment escaped his throat; it sounded so pathetic to his own ears he couldn't help but clench his jaw in frustration. _

"_Do you like what I'm doing to you, Jimmy?"_

_Jesus! What was she trying to do, kill him? _

"_Y-yesss…"_

_That pitiful whimper had been his sad excuse for an answer. He felt weak and powerless in her arms, like she could do anything she wanted to him, make him beg for it, ask anything of him, and he would comply without hesitation. His admiration for her at that precise second had no boundaries._

_She took his wrist, guided his hand under her robe to her ribcage where it found its own way slightly farther north. James' fascination grew as he realized he, too, had the ability to make her melt under his touch. Empowered by that feeling, he allowed his other hand to slither around her waist, shyly but determined. She threw her head back with an audible moan, exposing the ivory silkiness of her throat. James was abruptly overtaken by a primitive urge to bite the side of her neck where her pulsing heart throbbed visibly under the translucent skin. He was about to do so, when her mouth came down to claim his once again, only this time, he responded just as savagely. _

_She pulled back just long enough to plead breathlessly, "Stay with me tonight, Jimmy."_

"_I…"_

_Before he could answer, she was kissing him again so frantically, so desperately, anyone would've thought the world was going to end that night. Her hands were no longer restrained and roamed his body demanding more from him than he had ever given. _

"_Well, I…" he was panting heavily, trying to put an incoherent thought into a rational sentence. "I gotta be home by curfew." _

_His words brought the carnal fest to a screeching halt. She pulled back, eyes wide as she regarded him with something akin to shock. Her hand flew to her mouth as her eyes filled with tears and shame. _

"_Oh, God!" _

_It sounded both like a curse and a prayer. _

_She draped the robe around her body prudishly and walked back to the chest, picking up the bottle of brandy with shaky hands and pouring a good measure into a glass that had been already filled a couple of times that evening. She gulped the copper liquid down as if it were water, as if she wanted to wash away the past several minutes. _

_James observed her in a surreal daze, not sure whether to feel rage or pity. Completely shaken and utterly confused, he simply stood by the foot of the bed, not knowing what to say, while he fought hard to get his labored breathing and reeling mind under control._

"_Miss Holliday," he rasped timidly. "Did I say something…?"_

"_Go home, Jimmy," she muttered without facing him. _

_She lit up another cigarette, inhaling deeply to fill her lungs with that delicious poison, and exhaled it gradually, letting the cloud of smoke swirl around her as if to shield her from reality. James bit his lip not quite comprehending what had upset her so much. Had he done something wrong? _

"_A—are you okay?"_

"_I said LEAVE!" she thundered, turning sharply to face him. _

_He took a step back, shocked by her viral reaction. He wanted to apologize to her, promise her he could fix whatever he'd done wrong and do it right next time… Except he had a strong feeling, there wouldn't be a next time. The lust that had possessed her earlier had gone astray and now she was looking at him like a kid who had just smeared jelly all over her counters. He took it as his cue to leave._

_Once in the hallway, he leaned against the wall right outside of her apartment, a deep sense of defeat infecting his mind. Maybe his father was right: who could understand these damn broads? There was no point in trying. But then, he remembered the way Miss Holliday's body had responded when he'd kissed her, when he'd touched her… He felt drunk with that power. James vowed at that moment that, if he couldn't figure them out, he'd use them to his advantage. _

_Little did he know that, an ocean away, the person who would strip him of that very power one day had just spoken her first full sentence. _

[To Be Continued…]


	8. Chapter 8

Happy Thursday, guys! Sorry for the lateness. Life has this annoying knack of getting in the way… I hope you enjoy this one. Thanks for the comments. They always make me smile.

My sincere appreciation to **Ostrich** for her wonderful guidance, advice and patience. And to **Krato **for the inspiration.

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**CHAPTER 8**

_The house was dark and completely still. Only the familiar tick-tock of the grandfather clocks with their soothing rhythm dared break the funereal silence that enveloped the place. She knew she was being watched from behind the shadows, so she pressed her teddy bear closer to her chest and slowly went up one of the two elliptical stairways that hugged the foyer. _

"_Daddy?" she called once she reached the top._

_When she received no answer, she ventured into the darkness of the east wing gallery, at the end of which was her father's room. She turned her head in fear, padding down the corridor with the terrifying certainty that she was being followed. _

_The chant of the clocks became increasingly loud and disturbing. Their laconic song filled the air: _You're running out of time, you're running out of time, you're running out of time….

_As her panic increased so did her speed. She was almost running now, holding her teddy tightly for safety in that absurd gesture of comfort. She couldn't tell her heartbeat apart from the sound of the clocks, both deafening in her ears—_keep going, don't give up now!_ She didn't hear as much as she sensed the familiar sound of his father's even breathing as he rested in peaceful slumber. _

_Out of the blue, a tall figure began to take shape at the end of the corridor when she was merely ten steps away from the master bedroom. At first she thought her mind was playing tricks on her, but then the blurry silhouette came into focus, and she stopped in her tracks. A faint smile formed on her lips, terror immediately dissolving into relief. His face was mostly hidden, but his frame and profile were unmistakable. He spoke her name—one she'd use in the future, but she recognized it as her own right away. His voice was wrapped in warm velvet._

_Her short legs picked up speed as she headed toward him. All she wanted at that moment was to leave the darkness behind and fall within the safety of his arms, but the faster she ran, the greater the distance appeared to be between them. Tears of frustration moistened her cheeks when she realized she could not reach him, and she cried out his name with the desperation of a lost child. _

_In a surreal flash, a disembodied face materialized right in front of her. It was gigantic and menacing—a dense shadow void of emotion or identity that rose above her, blocking her way to safety. Its hollowed whisper sent a chill up her spine: _

_Watching… You…_

Harry woke up with a tight gasp. Her heart was pounding so fiercely she could actually hear its frantic gallop echoing in her ears. The bracket clock on her antique dresser was striking three; its quiet melody lingering a couple of eerie seconds after the last gong. She grabbed her robe with the conviction something else besides the disturbing dream had woken her.

Her slippers made no noise while she descended the stairs, her hand grazing the banister out of caution more than stability. Dempsey had been sound asleep on the sofa by the time she'd gone to bed. Her hesitation was probably unfounded. If there were in fact someone in the house, Dempsey would've been the first one to hear it. Plus, had there been an altercation, she would know by now for sure.

Still, Harry kept moving forward, listening attentively for any unfamiliar sound. She noticed the house was _freezing_, and draped the silk robe tighter around her shivering frame wondering why the furnace had stopped working. The angry howling of the wind outside was getting louder the closer she got to the front door. Then, she heard it again; clearly, what had startled her awake.

_BANG!_

She jumped, distressed, as three familiar letters popped into her mind, only to discover from where she was standing halfway down the stairs that the front door was wide open. It had just slammed against the wall, and trail of snow was scattered all the way into the foyer.

Harry hurried down to close it, but the moment she took hold of the door knob she noticed Dempsey out on the veranda, perfectly still, facing the street as if waiting for something. The bitter cold didn't seem to bother him as he stood there wearing only joggers and a jumper.

"Dempsey?" Harry called, confused and a bit frightened. "Is anyone out there?"

She quickly put on her coat to step outside and realized that her partner wasn't holding his gun. In fact, his posture did not denote tension, or alertness. He was simply standing there, arms limp by his sides, staring blankly into space. Pellets of snow appeared out of thin air, found him an easy target, but he remained undisturbed by the arctic lashing. The moment Harry noticed Dempsey wasn't wearing any shoes, she hurried over to him.

"Are you insane?" she scolded, grabbing his forearm. "For God's sake! Come inside before you die of exposure!"

But he didn't even acknowledge her. His expression was vacant, his eyes fixed on a remote spot somewhere in the distance.

"Dempsey!" she insisted, pulling harder. Her own hands and feet were starting to get numb.

He turned to her, although she wasn't entirely sure he could see her. Harry was facing the storm now, and could barely keep her eyes open against the onslaught. She heard him say something, but was unable to make out the single word. At the moment, it didn't really matter.

Practically dragging him inside, she slammed the door shut and turned the key on the lock twice, adding the safety chain for good measure. She forgot all about the snow covered floor at the entrance, and lead the way to the living room, where the dying fire slowly turned the last of the wood into ash.

Dempsey began to shake violently. Teeth chattering and dripping wet, he sat in hollow silence on the sofa while she added another log to the fire.

"Really, Dempsey, what were you thinking?"

Harry took a large woolen blanket from the Victorian chest in the corner and wrapped it around his shoulders. Reasonably concerned, she saw him blink several times while his eyes slowly focused on the fireplace, the sofa, her face… Gradually, his expression changed from empty to confused.

"Makepeace."

It sounded like a statement, or a confirmation—like she would vanish into thin air if he didn't make sure she was sitting right there, on the coffee table in front of him. And it suddenly dawned on Harry…

"You were sleepwalking," she told him.

He bit his still trembling lower lip, but didn't refute her. The dark circles around his eyes were more pronounced than ever, deep and purple.

"D—didn't mean to wake ya," he said with a shaky chuckle, offering her yet another unconvincing smile. He was obviously trying hard to get the shivering under control and failing miserably. "You can go b—back to bed, now. I'll be f—fine."

He was soaked through, hair sticking out in all different directions, and looked as pathetic as he probably felt. Harry exhaled deeply and winced at the sight of the delicate fabric of her _very_ expensive designer sofa totally drenched. She stood up and yanked the blanket away from him a little too aggressively.

"Okay, strip!" she ordered.

Dempsey was shocked for a moment, but perked up almost instantly looking up at her with something akin to awe.

"Really?" This time his smile was genuine.

"In the bathroom," she clarified pointing the way with a wave of her hand. "Get out of those clothes and take a hot shower. It'll help."

"I'll w—warm up faster if you join m—me."

Harry rolled her eyes and gave him a gentle push toward the bathroom. Thankfully, she still had some of Robert's clothes tucked away in the wardrobe. They came in handy on those nights Dempsey stayed over after working late, and even though they were a bit tight on him, he had never complained.

She discreetly left the clothes and a fresh towel on a wooden stool by the tub making sure she made enough noise for him to hear her over the running water, afraid he might step out of the shower before she had the chance to exit the bathroom. Her cheeks began to burn at the thought and she felt rather silly, like a teenager with a crush.

_Snap out of it, Harry! _

Tea was probably a good idea. Tea and Brandy was even a better idea. Her rational mind warned her against it, they had already polished off a bottle of wine that night, plus they were in the middle of an important case that required their minds to remain sharp and focused. But as it's often the case when one doesn't want to listen to reason, she ignored the nagging little angel over her right shoulder, and pulled the bottle out of the bar regardless. At worst, it would help Dempsey warm up, and at best, he might finally confide in her as to what the hell was bothering him so much.

Two mugs filled to the brim with steaming, mildly spiked tea were set on the coffee table by the time Dempsey returned to the living room. Harry was busy covering the sofa with the biggest towel she could find. She had managed to dry the floorboards near the entrance to some extent, but the Persian carpet would have to be professionally treated.

"Um, sorry 'bout the mess," he apologized sheepishly.

Harry hadn't realized he was behind her until he spoke. "Nothing an expensive cleaning service won't be able to fix," she answered haughtily.

For some reason, she found his closeness somewhat unsettling. She straightened up and swiftly bypassed him to get to her mug of tea, picking the other one up by the rim and offering it to him. He nodded his appreciation, grabbing it with both hands and taking a careful sip as he sat on the sofa.

"Tea with a twist, I like it!"

Harry sighed, sat on the coffee table in front of him as she had before, and looked down at her steaming mug. She was tired and in no mood for small talk.

"It's almost four, Dempsey…"

"You kiddin'! They have one of those in the _middle of the night_ too?"

"Cut it out!" she hissed exasperated, but then regretted her harshness almost immediately. "Look, I'm…"

After a short silence, he prompted, "What?"

"I'm worried about you, okay?" she finally confessed. "I think for some reason you're struggling with this case and it's affecting your judgment."

She had blurted out the words expecting a retaliation of epic proportions from him, was getting ready for it, so when he simply shrugged with something parallel to resignation, her defenses came tumbling down.

"I know," he admitted with a sigh. "I guess cases involvin' kids get to me worse than your average bank heist."

"It's not your job performance that concerns me," she stated. "It's your emotional stability."

"Since when has _that_ been an issue?" he asked with a crooked grin. "Hell, you've been tryin' to strap a straight jacket on me ever since you met me."

His aloofness was a clear indication that he was having a difficult time coping. She had seen this side of him before, and it only made her concern grow deeper with every snide remark.

"This is not funny, Dempsey," Harry snapped. "Spikings ought to know you're taking this—"

"Don't!" he hastened. "Harry, _please_. I need to see this through."

It was disconcerting to hear such desperate need in his voice. She held his stare, torn between doing what was right and abiding by a dangerous sense of loyalty that could potentially harm him.

"Fine," she said reluctantly. "But if I even _sense_ you're about to do something rash…"

"You always think I'm gonna do something rash," he smiled.

"You know what I mean."

He dropped the sardonic act and nodded, his expression much graver.

"I know what you mean," he conceded. "Thanks, Harry. You're a good partner."

"Yes. I'm a terrific partner," she exhaled loudly. "And a horrible friend..."

His lips curled up slightly. "Is that concern I hear in your voice, Makepeace?"

"Don't sound so surprised," she set the mug on the table, focused on her own nervous fingers curling around the belt of her robe. _Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it, don't say it…_ But the words came out of her mouth all the same. "I care about you, you know…"

He leaned forward, set his own mug on the table, and took a hold of her fidgeting hands, but she didn't dare meet his eyes. Her thoughts were stuck in a pool of gelatin, barely floating in perilous buoyancy.

"I know." To make matters worse, his soft voice was pouring lava all over her cool façade. "You kinda yelled it at me once 'n then threatened ta shoot me."

They both smiled at the memory, not so long ago. The fickle pillars of Harry's will faltered the moment his thumb started rubbing the inside of her wrist, feather strokes that sent delicious electricity to every nerve ending in her body. She wanted to pull away, to remove herself from temptation.

It must have been sheer exhaustion what stripped off the mask of indifference she always wore around him. And when the palm of his hand moved up to cup her cheek, her heart did a wild summersault that sealed her surrender. She instinctively leaned into the warm touch and closed her eyes. It was a subtle gesture, but enough for him to take it as an invitation.

_Oh, Lord! Was this really happening? _

His lips landed on hers, soft and incredibly tender. Nothing like the rough, phony kisses they had shared a couple of times while working undercover on a case. He wasn't provoking her this time. He was _seducing_ her. Harry felt overtaken by an unfamiliar urge, raw and primitive and downright terrifying.

Dempsey was taking his time, mouth hovering over hers for a split second before delicately kissing her again. If Harry didn't know any better, she'd think he was asking for permission to kiss her, which was odd, totally out of character, and directly responsible for the husky moan that escaped her throat taking them both by surprise.

He smiled against her lips and, encouraged by the sound, ventured into the depths of her mouth, carefully probing the unchartered territory. He tasted like rich darkness with a hint of brandy, enticingly forbidden. It didn't take long for the intensity of the kiss to grow steadily, making Harry's entire body tingle, and sending a delectable downward stream of warm, liquid pleasure deep inside her.

She knew she ought to put a stop to it right away—that they had gone way too far. It was a dangerous path; one not only frowned upon by SI10, but by her own moral standards. But the fingers on her right hand kept raking through his damp hair, while her left one clutched the back of the jumper like a lifeline.

The wave of emotions he was stirring within her frightened her to the core. A spark of reason suddenly ignited in the back of her mind, and she froze.

_What was she doing? This was Dempsey! Had she completely lost her mind? _

"Wait, wait…" she meekly breathed against his mouth.

Dempsey seemed undeterred. He kept kissing her, gently but insistently, completely lost in the moment.

"Stop," she mumbled, way too unconvincingly for him to comply. The alarm bells, however, kept ringing louder and louder in Harry's brain.

"Dempsey, STOP!"

Her hands had somehow found their way to his chest, pushing him harshly enough to get his attention. He pulled back, his expression a mixture of disappointment, desire and confusion all rolled into one. It was painfully obvious how much he wanted her, much too difficult to conceal under the cotton fabric of his joggers.

"What?" he panted. "What is it?"

His face, still close to hers, made her wish he wouldn't look at her with such lust. It took all her resolve to pull away, and the moment she did, she felt completely bereft of the warmth his touch had brought her.

"We can't do this," she said in a tight whisper.

"C'mon, princess," he placed a hooked finger under her chin and gently lifted it until their eyes met. "You want this as much as I do."

"No, I don't."

It took all of Harry's strength to keep her voice from breaking. He observed her carefully while she tried with all her might to maintain the cold façade she'd perfected.

"You're lying," he said.

Yes, he knew her well enough to know that. In fact, he could read most women like a book, and that very thought made Harry's stomach turn. She clenched her jaw with a jolt of determination, her cool demeanor now firmly in place when she said:

"I'm not one of them."

She stood up to walk around the coffee table in a desperate need to put some distance between them. Inside her chest her heart was being ripped to shreds, but she managed, as she often did, to appear completely serene.

"One of them?" Dempsey was clearly puzzled. "Who's _them_?"

Harry looked away and folded her arms in a defensive stance. "One of those names in your little black book," she shrugged, pretending to appear unfazed.

His expression hardened the moment the words were out of her mouth and, although he didn't move, she could notice a sudden change in his appearance. His eyes were no longer playful, they had darkened considerably, and a mild frown had replaced the naughty grin he'd been sporting a few seconds before. Harry knew she shouldn't have been so blunt, that she had crossed a line, and there was nothing she could do to take the words back.

"That's what you think this is?" he asked, his voice deep.

She was unable to offer him an answer and wished he had never posed the question in the first place. When she failed to say anything, Dempsey shook his head in disbelief and let out a quiet chuckle, but there was not a trace of humor in his expression.

"Well, isn't it?" she challenged.

This time, it was Dempsey who chose not to look her in the eye. "Go to bed, Makepeace," he said, blinking tiredly. "It's late. I appreciate your concern, but I'll be fine."

Harry didn't say anything. She painfully sensed the invisible wall that had just risen between them and drowned in the deafening silence that fell upon the room.

She climbed up to her room with heavy feet, slipped out of her robe, and slid under the covers with a painful lump lodged inside her throat. How could she have allowed it to happen? She _knew_ Dempsey was a womanizer, a _player_; that she was willingly stepping into quicksand. It had been obvious by his reaction when she'd called him out on it, by his refusal to even disprove the accusation. Except, she pondered, he'd looked more hurt than disappointed.

_Could it really mean…? _

But Harry refused to go down that road, because the implication rattled her a hundred times more than the alternative. All she could do as she turned her back to the door was hold on to her dignity, swallow her despair, and will away the tears she refused to shed because of him.

[To Be Continued…]


	9. Chapter 9

Hello! Is it Thursday already? Well, for those of you who're still hanging in there, here's today's chapter.

My usual thanks to that wonderful **Ostrich** who keeps me on my toes, for the fun times and great guidance. And to **Krato**, for pulling me into the world of fanfic once again with her awesome stories.

Enjoy!

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**CHAPTER 9**

_127 Utica Ave - Brooklyn, NY 1961_

_It was a busy Tuesday at the 77__th__ Precinct in Brooklyn. James sat at his uncle's desk watching the hustle and bustle going on around him with wide-eyed fascination—phones ringing off the hook, cops joking around, resigned people in handcuffs, uniforms and detectives swarming in and out like a beehive. It was exhilarating and infinitely better than going to his dad's plant. Not that he went to see his dad often, but the few times he had __gone with his brother when he__ was younger were enough to convince him that he would be just as miserable as his old man if he had to work in such a monotonous place day after day. _

"_Hey, Jimmy! You got here fast," Uncle Johnny greeted the moment he spotted his nephew. "No deliveries today?"_

"_Nah, Gino offered to cover my route," he shrugged. "'supposed to be my birthday present. He's even splittin' today's wages with me."_

"_Your birthday? You don't __say!" Lupino frowned feigning ignorance. He exhaled, running a finger over the left side of his mustache deep in thought. "If only I had remembered it was__ your birthday today…"_

"_Uncle Johnny!" James smiled, calling his bluff. _

_It had been his uncle who had asked him to come to the precinct right after school, and even though he hadn't given a specific reason, he might have hinted at a special surprise in the works. Manuel Ortiz, Lupino's tank-of-a-man partner and the largest Puerto Rican James had ever met, walked up to them with a broad smile on his rugged face. He was the only Latino in the entire place and, by far, the loudest cop._

"_¡Wepa, Jimmy!" he bellowed in a thick Hispanic accent, giving the boy a friendly pat on the back. "Nice ta see ya, gusarapo! Whatta ya doin' here? Have ya been stealin' hubcaps again?"_

"_Hola, Manny! No, yo vengo a… um… hang out with my uncle," James finished with an apologetic grin._

"_¡No jodas! ¿Viniste a pasar el rato con este majadero?" he laughed, winking at his partner. _

"_Ain't no keepin' him away, man!" Lupino laughed. "Kid says he wants to be a cop one day."_

"_For the big, fat salary, I'm sure," Ortiz retorted. "Okay, then. You ready to have some fun?"_

"_Where're we goin'?"_

_James kept shifting in place, barely able to contain his excitement. The two cops exchanged a knowing glance. Pointing his chin towards the exit, Manny said in a low voice: "You guys go ahead, everything's set to go. I'll keep 'al pendejo de' Warren busy for the next half hour." Inside of the fish tank, they could all see the Captain half buried behind a stack of folders and heatedly yelling at someone over the phone. "Yep! Coast clear!"_

_Uncle Johnny led James to the basement and down a long hallway with a door at the far end; there was a huge sign__above it that read "SHOOTING __PRACTICE__". They had a twenty minute window before the end of the shift, when most likely some of the rookies would come down to perfect their aim, which was more than enough time to squeeze in at least five or __six rounds. James felt a rush of adrenaline course through his body. He stepped into cabin #3, and reverently took the .22 S&W his uncle had previously checked out of the gunroom—a small caliber gun with minimal recoil._

"'_Alright, kid, that one's unloaded," Lupino informed. "First you're gonna learn how to hold it." _

"_Okay," James nodded, stretching his right arm to take aim at the target._

"_Whoa, whoa, whoa!" his uncle exclaimed. "First rule o'thumb, you always point the barrel downrange until you're ready to aim 'n shoot, capisce? Now, we treat our guns like we treat our women: gently 'n with extreme caution, 'cause they can easily go off on ya." _

_James smirked and let out a quiet chuckle. He didn't really know that much about women. In fact, he felt totally intimidated by them, like he would never be able to figure them out. And yet, he was infinitely fascinated by the way they moved, they smelled, they talked... He hadn't told anybody about his bizarre encounter with Ms. Holiday. That was something he felt ought to be kept to himself. _

"_So, familiarize yourself with the gun. Hold it with your right hand, yeah, just like that," Lupino continued, helping James get a proper grip. "Loosen up that pinky… Good! Now cup your left hand 'round your right one, it'll help your stability. Make sure both your thumbs're down here, it'll hurt like a sonofabitch if they get caught in the hammer when you fire." _

"_Like this?" _

_James was trying to follow his uncle's instructions to the letter. He inspected his hands on the small handgun, struggled to perfect the grip, something which would eventually come to him as naturally as breathing, but at that point felt like he had three fingers too many. _

"_That's good, kid! Now let's work on your stance," Uncle Johnny went to stand behind him. "Move your left foot forward, not so much… yes like that," he tapped James' right leg slightly with his foot. "Feet shoulder-length apart, bend your knees a little… Okey-dokey! Now focus on the target, align the front sight and the rear sight, 'n take aim. Safety off, finger firmly on the trigger… Atta, boy! Don't hold your breath, Jimmy, it'll throw your balance off_

_After practicing for a while on an empty chamber,__Uncle Johnny loaded the pistol and handed James a pair of earmuffs and goggles for protection. James missed the target completely on the first shot, but after a couple of pointers from his uncle, he got significantly better round after round. _

"_Nice shootin', kid!" Lupino praised holding up the target board after the last round. He raised his eyebrows genuinely impressed. "Don't say nothin', but some of the boys 'round here'd be lucky to get these scores."_

_Target practice with Uncle Johnny had been definitely one of the best presents James' could've asked for on his 14__th__ birthday. He had been nagging his uncle ever since he could remember to teach him how to fire a gun. Leave it to Johnny to choose such a special day to make his wish come true. _

_His father, on the other hand, hadn't even mentioned his birthday that morning, although when there are no expectations, there's no room for disappointment. And his mom, well, she had been having trouble getting out of bed ever since Sean's death, and now was a mere shell of the vibrant woman she used to be. James had become mostly invisible in that household, which given the circumstances suited him just as well. He was out on the street more often than not anyhow,__trying to stay out of trouble most of the time, and not always succeeding. _

_Nights were the hardest, though, as he spent countless minutes staring at the empty bed next to his own, waiting for sleep to claim him. _

"_Have they found anythin' else?" James timidly asked._

_He tried to look casual as he watched his uncle place the unloaded gun back in its casing. Two other boys had been found dead in the months leading up to his brother's disappearance, both of their bodies discovered not too far from where Sean's had turned up. All of them had been male, roughly the same age and build, blond and blue-eyed. Lupino had requested to be part of the special task force that had taken over the investigation, and given his exceptional professional standing, he had been granted such request, despite his blood ties to the third victim. _

"_These things take time, kid," Uncle Johnny sighed. _

"_Did the other boys also have a letter tattooed on their bodies?" _

_Lupino turned to look at his nephew with a frown. "How do you know about the letter?"_

"_I heard things upstairs, cops talkin' about it."_

"_In front of you?!" _

_But James' mind was too far away to acknowledge the question. _

"_It shoulda been me…" he mumbled, ignoring his uncle's wrath over his colleagues' negligence. _

"_No, Jimmy," Uncle Johnny sighed after a beat, pulling the boy into a tight embrace. "Goddammit! Don't you say that!"_

_James wanted to return the hug but felt numb, emotionally detached, like there was some sort of disconnect between his mind and his feelings. He knew deep down that if his eyes and hair had been a different color, he would've been the one six feet under the ground. It was only thanks to his Italian ancestry that he was still alive. It all seemed so random and unfair. Nothing made sense anymore. _

"_It's okay to cry, y'know?" Johnny whispered near his ear._

_It would have been easy to give into the grief; to break down and let it wash over him. Except inner strength was all he had left—it drove him and, at one point, it had started defining him. If he lost that, he'd lose himself. He doubted anybody understood that. It was all he could do to keep his sanity. Men just didn't cry. _

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

SI10 Headquarters, London, 10:36am

It was a gelid Sunday morning, but at least snow had stopped falling. Only a handful of people were at the office, all focused on diverse tasks, all relying on coffee for much needed energy. Makepeace sat at her desk in front of her word processor, which was clearly mocking her lack of inspiration while the clock on the wall kept reminding her that Spikings would be expecting a progress report on his desk in under an hour. Her mind, however, insisted on wandering away to a place she had tried to escape all night.

By the time she'd showered, put on some casual clothes and came down the stairs, Dempsey was already dressed and ready to go. She had looked fractionally better than he did, though not by much. It had been a long night—she hadn't slept a wink after going back to bed, felt extremely tired and on edge, and was anxious to wrap up this god-awful case so she could finally get off the stupid, emotional roller-coaster.

Her attempts to brush off their previous night's indiscretion were met by Dempsey's cordial indifference. They were being polite but distant to each other, barely speaking two words on the drive over to the office. It was obvious they were avoiding the subject, which in a way was a relief. Besides, there were other priorities that demanded their full attention, so she forced herself to focus on the empty page in front of her and began to type.

Marcus Watson, electronics and explosives specialist, and first in line for any high-risk operative, poked his head around the door. "The computers are down again. We'll have the glitch fixed as fast as we can, but it might take a couple of hours." He looked at Dempsey and frowned. "What the bloody hell happened to you, man? You look like the return of the living dead!"

But Dempsey simply ignored the comment. "Have we heard back from forensics yet about the Sergeant's car?"

Harry pressed her lips together, her focus squarely on the keyboard. The_ Sergeant's _car_…_ Determined not to let his cold indifference bother her, she kept on typing her mediocre report. Dempsey must have been in much better shape than he looked. He had finished and turned in his own report over an hour ago.

"Nothing yet," Watson replied. "My guess is we won't know anything until tomorrow, but given the seriousness of the offence, they might get back to us sooner."

Dempsey nodded, pulled a cigar out of his jacket's inner pocket and walked over to the window. "Let us know the moment you hear somethin'."

Watson turned to leave with a cordial nod, and almost bumped into Spikings as he walked out the door. The Superintendent gave him a withering stare, pushing past him with an overabundance of energy, and forcing the taller black man to step back to give him access. Watson quickly dashed out of the room like a deer that's just spotted a hunter.

"YOU CALL THIS A PROGRESS REPORT?!" Spikings shouted without preamble, waving a wrinkled page at Dempsey. "I HAVE…" he glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice to an angry whisper. "I have both, the Commissioner and the Home Secretary, breathing down my neck expecting results on this investigation, however unreasonable their timeframe might be. So, if it's not too much to ask, could you _please_ put a little bit more of an effort in your assessment of the case, so the report doesn't read like something written by a five year old?"

Harry tried to make herself invisible, catching sight of Dempsey out of the corner of her eye. He was half sitting on the window ledge and looking at the street below with a jaded expression on his face. Turning to Spikings, he took a long drag out of his cigar and mumbled something under his breath that sounded a lot like blatant insubordination.

"What was that, Lieutenant?" Spiking hissed.

"Yessir!" he saluted, military style. "I'll getcha a report that'd make Tolstoy proud!"

"I just need it to make sense!" the Governor said, raising his voice again. "And what the hell is the matter with you? You look like you belong in the cemetery!"

"For Christsakes!" Dempsey barked enraged. "Can everyone stop commentin' on how I fuckin' look already! I'm fine! Do I have to wear a goddamn sign around my neck?!"

Spikings' face went straight to purple. Eyes bulging, he bellowed: "You're skating on thin ice, boy! I'll be the judge as to whether my officers are fit to work or not!" He turned his deep scowl towards Harry, who immediately broke eye contact. But the older man wasn't easily fooled. "Makepeace," he said sternly. "My office, now!"

"If it concerns me, I'd like to be present, _sir_," Dempsey said, flashing a glance at his partner before focusing on his boss. He had emphasized the word "sir", although it had sounded anything but deferential.

Spikings clenched his jaw and contemplated the tandem in silence for several long seconds. "Is there anything you two need to tell me?"

A peculiar stillness fell upon the room, thickened the space all around loading it with tension. Spikings knew something was up. Of course, not even a blind man could have missed it. Dempsey was still slouching against the window, his pallor almost deathly, and it occurred to Harry that he was having trouble standing. He had gone a couple of shades paler since their arrival that morning, and looked positively ill fit to work at the office, let alone out on the field. However, he still found the strength to answer the question and, to her surprise, sound more or less convincing.

"Everything's under control, boss. I just had a bad night's sleep. That's all."

Far from convinced, Spikings turned to Harry with a stern face. "Makepeace?"

Harry licked her lips. She could sense Dempsey's piercing stare from across the room, felt the raging desire to come clean, to tell Spikings that he wasn't coping and pull him off the case. It would've been the sensible thing to do. Her sense of duty thrust her in that direction. But some irrational sense of loyalty made it impossible for her to betray him.

"I'm sure the Lieutenant will feel better after he gets some rest," she said tightly and with a great deal of self-loathing. "These past days have been rather exhausting."

The Governor looked at her, suspiciousness written all over his face. He wasn't buying it, that much was clear, but for some reason he offered them a curt nod. "Very well," he sighed. "There isn't much we can do here without working computers on a Sunday. Go home and get some rest. I want to see a detailed report on my desk from each of you first thing tomorrow morning."

Harry mouthed an inaudible "thank you, sir", powered off the word processor and slowly gathered her things. Dempsey was leaning against the wall of the corridor outside and waiting for her by the time she was ready to leave. He kept rubbing his temples in a circular motion, eyes closed, clearly trying to ward off a splitting headache.

"Ready to go?" he gritted.

But just before she could reply, he darted right past her and into the men's room across the hallway. It left Harry blinking with shock, until she realised a few moments later that he was actually throwing up, although, she guessed, there couldn't have been anything else besides coffee in his stomach. Needless to say they should've stayed the hell away from wine and fun-tea last night.

_Dammit!_ Why did he have to be so stubborn? And why did she go along with his mad request? She ought to walk right back into the office and tell Spikings what was _really_ going on! If she truly cared about her partner—and, hard as it was to admit, she cared a lot more than she should—she would do just that.

Instead, she went to knock gently on the door, walking in slowly without expecting an invitation. Dempsey turned off the tap, and was tossing the paper towel he'd just used to dry off his face into the wastebasket when their eyes met in the mirror, a wordless exchange that began to crack the bloody wall that had risen between them.

"Don't look at me like that," he mumbled.

She didn't say anything, just sauntered up to the sink and produced a bottle of Aspirin from her handbag, although on an empty stomach, she wasn't sure whether it would do more harm than good. He took it with a small grunt of appreciation, swallowing double the recommended dose at once with some tap water.

"Don't think I'm fit to drive," he rasped, handing over the keys to the Merc. To admit such a thing, took much more out of him than she recognised. "You mind drivin' me home?"

"Of course I don't mind," she muttered accepting the keys.

He put on his sunglasses the moment they exited the building, and though it made him appear a tad less ashen, the tightness of his jaw, and the way he leaned his head back against the car seat the entire ride to his flat was a clear testament of how much he needed to rest.

"Are you sure you're going to be all right?" she asked stopping by the kerb right in front of his building.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," he uttered. "Thanks for drivin'. See ya tomorrow."

She would've liked to say something to him before he got out of the car, but didn't know exactly what. The door slammed shut, and felt to Harry like the rigid punch of a typebar hitting the question mark on an old Remington. For an answer to that particular query, she guessed, they would need some time apart.

[To Be Continued…]


End file.
